It is not clear whether those bones - humans and at the same time strange to the bone pattern of the species - rise, figuring the jump to standing that constituted at least what we are, beasts hardly more intelligent than others, as humans. On the contrary, they melt into the ground, go back to dust, they signal the retreat of the human, on the back of barbarism that - as Benjamin said - encloses each document of the culture.
Einstein once commented in a phrase that became celebrated, that he did not know which weapons would be used in an eventual Third World War, but that he knew with certainty which would be used in the Fourth: sticks and stones. This is the language - like all the work of Aveta - of this sculpture.
Weltliteratur is a word coined by Goethe that aspired to go further - in terms of poetry - from the limits of a mean national geography, to find itself with the foreign. It is an irony - that this installation points out - that only the catastrophe has irradiated outside the borders, the tragedy, la debacle.
"La debacle", the novel of Zola and "The Process" of Kafka, in addition to some other works of the russian literature - all with identical binding - were the books used. The fate of those books - I did not know it but in that moment - it was the reading but the destruction. In a secret intelligence, I had inherited them just for them to be converted in the bones that the artist would one day sculpt. Bones made not of calcium but of letters. It is not bad that it be so as we are a specie, for better or worse, made of letters.