AND THE LIGHT THAT DOESN'T ILLUMINATE

Salt no longer salts. It is cast aside. Thrown away and trampled on by everyone. The last resort is the "light of the world" and this being that wanders through old corridors seeks that last glimmer of hope, seeks in a building left to disuse, as salt was, the way to be illuminated and perhaps later still illuminate. It seeks to leave disorientation, fragility, it seeks in decay something good. In a large and spacious space this being wanders, walks through corridors and rooms, goes after the beams of light in order to be able to absorb from the little that still enters through the large windows of the building. These beams of light are imposing. Divine, even. She reaches out to them. Fishing for answers. Let the beams pass through her fingers and all over her body. Let these beams transmit what from the salt you can do nothing more than step on it. But this light begins to lose strength. The intensity reduces. It is itself, again, stepped on. "True light illuminates all men and women. It illuminates all fish. It opens the way for them into the darkness of the deep sea," she reflects in her numerous thoughts as she wanders behind the glimmers of light. But, if her light lets go out, if those rays of light that should be her maintenance, for whatever reason also stop illuminating her, what will happen to her? Throughout this visual process we are confronted with colors, yellow and blue, sun and moon, day and night, with the almost dominant intensity of light and also by the lack of it, we end up with a chiaroscuro game that dominates the final picture. The dark gains strength. The being becomes frosted.
The salt no longer salts and the light no longer illuminates.