Buenos aires.. Like an enchanting evocation once your lips utter these words. From the pampas to the seductive Argentinian that dances the tango, your imagination really has no limitations. It is in the centre of her odour, her cries and her anxiety that the Red House accompanies you.
When entering into the exposition, you lose more and more your space-time benchmarks and really do not know how to visualise everything before your eyes. And for good reason, it is four generations of artists, recognised or emerging, working on multiple supports that you discover; from painting to sculpture, through photograph or video…
You wander between facades and scaffolding, coming to observe a statue without a face or coming to enter into an apartment that leaves you without voice. You are no longer in a foundation but in a real house that would have submerged a catastrophe before being rebuilt somehow. Between fascination and discomfort, you stop your eyes to the freshly glued glasses, a battered sofa, a coffee table split in two. The astonishment is the post- appocalyptique scent that wafts the room.
Opening your ears, you hear a smooth voice and allow yourself to be taken away before finding yourself in a small cinema listening to Silvia Monica gently evoking, the tune of a popular tango, and the horror of an article on child prostitution. The last one, a transsexual activist that has always dreamed of being a singer and engages in a touching performance that leaves you speechless.
At the end of this journey of the senses, you give yourself a different image of the Buenos Aires that your imagination had captured, through innumerable creations that tell all different stories. The violence, the fear, the years of dictatorship, are scattered among the bruised parts, monumental or minimalist artists as an attempt to heal the city in their own way.