To inhabit a cloud is not a metaphor. It is a condition.
In Tucumán, clouds do not always belong to the weather. Sometimes they are produced. They rise from dust lifted by dirt roads, from flour that turns the air white, from residues of labor that remain suspended even after the action has passed. There is also another cloud—the one produced by sugar mills—which marks seasons, schedules, economies, and bodies. For those who grow up nearby, it is neither landscape nor metaphor: it is living history. It is experienced.
The works in this exhibition do not represent rural life; they emerge from within it. They do not function as illustrations or closed narratives, but as situations in which territory, gesture, and material are activated together. Here, gesture does not describe labor—it performs it. Work appears not as an isolated occurrence, but as duration: repetition, rhythm, and knowledge learned through practice.
In Sosa’s work, actions do not arise as commentary on territory, but from within it. He does not approach the landscape in search of a theme; he begins from an inherited world—familial, communal, historical—where decisions are never neutral. Fencing a house, tracing a line, wounding the land, raising a cloud are acts that organize reality while simultaneously contesting it. What is at stake is not the image of labor, but its persistence as a form of knowledge.
Air plays a central role. Dust ceases to be residue and becomes language. Clouds interrupt vision, alter breathing, and demand attention. What seems light or insignificant becomes obstacle, warning, presence. The ephemeral here is not what disappears without leaving a trace, but what returns.
Here, video does not function as secondary documentation. It is the site where the work takes place for us. The camera structures perception and establishes distance, situating the viewer within the conditions of the work.
This exhibition invites us to see with the body. To listen to effort. To perceive the slow time of the field and the sudden violence of interruption. To understand that, in these works, matter does not accompany—it testifies. Earth, flour, cement, smoke, metal, air—everything is speaking. What it speaks does not collapse into an individual story, even if it emerges from lived experience. Instead, it opens onto a broader field: that of worked territories, inherited knowledge, and the often-invisible ways in which a community learns to inhabit what it is given.