A bowl a day, what an audacity. Perhaps one thinks that there is no difficulty in doing something as simple and simple as a bowl throughout the day. Perhaps we are taking many things in our daily lives for granted. It is possible that what we took for granted was only a temporary gift with which we were graced. And one discovers it by watching it go, inexorably slipping from his grasp, feeling an immediate nostalgia laced with denial and disbelief. No new day is protected against the uncertainty of fate. Planning is who knows if a type of fear of the future, just as improvisation can be, its opposite and at the same time so even. What is to come persecutes us as much as we do it, taking place in a kind of dark dance where we doubt who will be the dancer who leads and who will let himself be carried away. The music is the events that occur, marking the rhythm of the story. We want to believe that we wrote and we want to believe that it was written, both to preserve our hearts and guts from something about which we cannot be certain. Because at the same time we seek and avoid answers to calm the affliction of restlessness. But becoming is never true, until it ceases to be such and becomes past. The bowl made is the past and the one yet to be made is very daring.

Cover image: Goya, F. , circa 1786. A woman and two children next to a fountain . Oil on canvas, Carmen Thyssen-Bornemisza Collection.