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Paradoxically, we produce amounts of plays with great dedication although very few of them manage to survive. Most of them will be forgotten, destroyed (poorly maintained), deteriorated by humidity and the exposure to ultraviolet rays. That volume of abandoned, lost or deteriorated plays claims its survival.

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Castaway Artwork is a mental, not manifested place within a certain play which survives over time without materially existing.

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A thought can have the shape of a fish, of an egg shell, rigid.

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A green and grey sheath surrounding the loving landscape.

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A thought of a broken nose floating peevishly over an aquamarine.

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Museums, dirty white sculptures.

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The artworks float in the sea like non identified bodies.

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The bodies and the artworks belong to nobody, nobody builds them in the dense path. The body of the artwork is the meaning of the existence that terrifies. The speeches resonate in an empty drum. If the artwork cannot demand autonomy, the artist is the toy of private control.

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Which is the space destined to take care of them.

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A flexible memory that can be trained?

Another sheltered and prepared way for its completeness?

The mind as an urn where memories rest?

Is there a body that acknowledges the ephemeral without any conflicts?

Is it the shape of an overflowing ego the thing that precedes the thought?

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Artworks with devices to travel, ready to cross the harshness.

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Cross a frozen sea laying on a sled that cracks. Metallic eggs buried in the sand.

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I propose a marine landscape, a mental island, a capsule which floats in the sea of memory. Fragments of accumulated artworks.

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The artwork develops its defense, becomes immune, it cannot be assaulted by the harshness, ultimately, the Castaway artwork is the one that can bend and break, be added to other formats and basically develop its own devices to travel.