With its rustic figures of wood with a vertical tube going through it that no longer makes it go up and down, the little horses of Mónaco, en La Víbora, are the rusty gallop of boredom, the wheel of poverty in turns of hopelessness. With faces unexpressive of emotion, we purchased the rides for our toddlers on the plain slowness and monotony, to cross the doors of imagination in machines re-molded by abandonment and unrepaired from laziness.
That’s how we also find the adults, caught in the green map of prohibitions, with footprints of hammers of litanies and patched dreams of absence and silence. This unremarkable merry-go-round forces its tedious motor, whose arrhythmia of pistons can hardly turn the rusted structure.
Translated by: BW
July 11 2011