Rivers run through the open ravines of our body, of our country. The heart of the hills goes down, like lava turned into food.
More than seven blocks of razed cedars “to widen the avenue” or “erase memory”. To one side the stumps were sticking out of the cement. I exhumed the root, inverted it, filled its grooves with potatoes carved like seeds in stone from Huamanga, that alabaster from the most tragic area of the Andes.
It is also a way of cohabiting, receiving from this imposing geography the solid ancestral roots of the Andean culture overturned on the coast where its ancestral fruits are offered.