The studio, for me, is a shapeshifting entity. I never considered myself a studio artist—especially after moving to Mexico from Venezuela. The studio became more of an intention, related to a spirit rather than a structure. Over time, I came to realize that this definition emerged from absence—and that absence transformed into possibility rather than limitation.
You can produce anywhere: a walk, a notebook, a backroom, an instrument, a gigantic facility, or a fever. In recent years, several displacements made me reconsider the idea of the studio even more. From Mexico, Spain, Germany, and several other places in the U.S., the studio transformed into a few suitcases, a backpack, some gear, notes, and a capacity to adapt and improvise in a place I didn’t think could ever be available to me.
The idea of being in a place became its own form of study. Awareness and resourcefulness transformed into a political intention and a quest to realign as best as possible with the scripted character amidst each relocation—and with the uniqueness that the transient nature of these occasions can provide.
All of a sudden, the limits between life, research, and behavior blurred—into a hard-to-measure sense of exposure and a shaky but solid stance that restates itself as an exercise in continuity with each step, a delicate state of hyperpresence.
Processes, repetitions, and fixations began to gather in a kind of town hall, summoning accumulation in both a logical and pre-logical way—an active archive where accidents, materials, ideas, misreadings, experiences, and conjectures marinate in shifting sands. In part, my inability to let go of certain things is the studio, but also mixed with the new, when what’s left of the mask kicks in.
It’s impossible to stay the same through any movement. For me, every time I get to make what I strive for in a new context, I shift—something breaks, something= disappears, something unveils itself in a way I can only describe as telluric.
Fragment reassessment: a forensic labor, somehow, imagine how you feel after spinning on your axis 77 times—yet with the clarity of a hound dog chasing a scent—doing whatever is possible to move forward, even bypassing language, disoriented yet clarified.
I’ve always been between languages: drumming and sculpture. They push each other, but come from the same place. Growing up, they were never fully separated.
Nowadays, it’s sometimes hard for me to know if something I made is an instrument or a sculpture, a drawing or a composition, an opinion or a solo, or everything at the same time.
After being on the road for a while, I’m readjusting to Mexico City, clocking in—this is my tenth year. I’m reevaluating what I’ve done here and far out. I’m seeing my place as a stranger, an archive that is encrypted, and I’m the only possible translator. I’m about to assume that the only possible solution is subtractive. Less—less—less. What is the meaning of handling your accumulations?
debris
debris debris
debris debris debris
debris debris debris debris
debris debris (debris) debris debris
debris debris debris debris debris debris
debris debris debris debris debris debris debris
A hoarder’s guide to letting go. A chance for confrontation, knowing that comforthad left a while ago.
That’s the studio at work: conflict is as essential as reassessment in practice, like a gut-wrench that turns into the glory of flow and bursting relief. Lately, I see the studio as a scene, a stage that may or may not support intention. Inhabiting it is unavoidable now—whether it works or not, it’s filled with tension. A diorama of multiple moments unfolding at once, agreements and contradictions.
For now, I aim to reduce friction, but also listen to that voice when it is present.
You can find out more about Armando Rosales at @armandorosalesriveri // armandorosalesrivero.com
Photos: Courtesy of the artist.
