James Jessiman, Héctor Delgado, Carlos Revilla

When I think about this space—inhabited by remnants of machines, bodies that rethink human anatomy, beings born from catastrophe, and vegetation that invents new forms of survival and autonomy—I understand that a metaphysical force operates here, one that disrupts and rewrites known laws. Within this territory, the artists, each from their own logic, seem to respond to a collective and social incongruity that pushes us toward a trance of dehumanization and uprootedness. This regressive progress—or false progress—that benefits a few at the expense of all, provokes a reaction that manifests in a dreamlike (yet feverish) atmosphere. In the face of loss, a hybrid ground emerges where body and object—understanding body as human, animal, or vegetal—overlap, merge, and reorganize in order to imagine new forms of existence. In Carlos Revilla’s work, we enter a laboratory where body and machine coexist on the same plane of intensity. His figures compose a territory in which sensuality filters into structures that, at first glance, might appear rigid, ironic, or even hostile. Formed within the climate of postwar European Surrealism, Revilla developed an acidic, skeptical, and erotically charged language to confront the technological promises of his time: a world that celebrated progress while generating new devices of control, dehumanization, and uncertainty. In his paintings, mobile limbs, prostheses, and machines not only evoke the Surrealist tradition of assemblage and the automaton, but also point to the ways in which modernity produces fragmented bodies and surveilled desires. With Héctor Delgado, we enter a post-collapse territory where the world seems to rebuild itself from its own debris. His collages are populated by mutant creatures inhabiting an almost infertile, desert-like, and dystopian terrain—yet one capable of generating its own systems. Far from proposing anarchical chaos, each work establishes a micro-ecosystem governed by internal logics, where the impure, the non-human, and the marginal become active agents of recomposition. James Jessiman, by contrast, works from research and travel. His bronze sculptures—batteries and orchids linked within the same circuit—are the result of mythologies gathered during his journey through Peru. Where the pursuit of power implies displacement and extraction, alternatives are imagined: machines that seem to activate through affective forces; engines fueled by desire; devices and transmitters that capture emotional signals. In his pieces, Jessiman dissolves the distinction between tool and organism to open the way for artifacts that reformulate the relationship between matter, body, and feeling. When I think about this space, I understand that the journey progresses from collapse to mutation: first, the clash of exhausted systems; then, recomposition made of remnants, signals, and improbable sprouts; and finally, the emergence of new hybrid entities. In this room, what surfaces is not a nostalgia for what was lost, but a radical affirmation: the future belongs to the unstable, the impure, the playful, and the improbable—to all that, even in the midst of collapse, insists on living. Tarissa Revilla