Master Molina’s first work was wind-powered, so when the wind died down, the show stalled, and waited, according to the master’s own account. A lost work, with no images or footage of any type to speak for it. A work that no historian or Molina researcher has ever seen. Many even doubt its very existence.
An installation made of wind, cogs, and memories. Wind that rustles tree boughs and spins a kid’s windmill; which disturbs the curtains and carries thoughts far off; wind that moves the distant clockwork of the eye and, through its mechanical ballet of string, wooden cranks and wires, breathes life into dolls, into characters that dwell in memory. What were once the shards of recollections are pieced together into language, into life, “into contrapted life”, as Master Molina once put it.