What if I break the mould
and start casting?

There are attractive
elements in casting, starting first with the perception of negative space. Isn’t
it exciting when you start thinking about negation? Give substance to something
which is absent? Give body to the space surrounding the object you want to
cast? How would the space look if the air was solid and the object was thin
air? That thought travels me to Argia, the invisible city of Italo Calvino
which has earth instead of air, most probably the city of dead; and in that
sense the mould becomes the coffin of the object, suffocating it, depriving it
from being seen, keeping secretly it’s imprint, it’s void form. But as morbid as
that may sound, it actually holds the key to an eternal life. This is a
brilliant way to freeze the form forever and bring the object back to life
again and again as you would please. Another divine power to the hands of the
artist! After creating forms from nothing and giving life to ideas, well now,
it’s time to resurrect forms from the past, casting them back to life.

As the excitement builds
up, the question remains. How can you design this time capsule for the object?
Wouldn’t you first pick the right moment? How would you make sure the object
stays still, keeps smiling and doesn’t close his eyes – a useful advice: do not
use flash! Will the mould be truthful to the object’s beauty? And how long
shall it stay still? Does waiting fades the beauty or fuels the desire? In fact
waiting plaster to dry involves usually a substantial time passage. And when
mould and object become one how do you separate them? Feeling so close and
intimate as they know every inch of each other’s body, how would you break this
bond without tears? Will not the object feel objectified? No more needed,
replaceable as of now…

And where does that leave
you, the artist? Does it leave you glorified in your power to immortalize,
reproduce and replicate? Or a bit empty knowing that you couldn’t just make
another object as similar as the first one without going through the tortuous
discipline of repetition?