In his latest production, this elusive condition becomes increasingly sound because despite his formally recognisable linguistic resources, that is to say, what could be called his own stylistic language, meaning his red areas where the figure becomes petal, trunk, branch, root, skin, bulge, piece of meat or ankylosed rock anchored in the landscape, his linen or unbleached cotton as a demarcation of a symbolic desert territory, his use of a toxic green, almost too industrial to refer to a strange and enveloping vegetation as a biologised narrative element, sustantivised one might say, because the artist succeeds in not depicting them as ‘static plants’ but rather as a ‘kind of acting botany’; despite having acquired complete mastery over them all, Zurita is getting better and better at evading any label. He escapes the word.
However, sometimes obliquely, something allows us to approach his mysterious nonconformity zone, never a ‘comfort zone’. It becomes a zone of resistance. And in these last works we could say that this zone is the mental space of a flight. An escape. A displacing movement that flees, that tries to escape from this absurd present full of—perhaps overpopulated by—berserks in command.
A reality that Jesús avoids, postponing it. By diverting his static geography to a dramaturgy that falls in waterfall—at the possibility of remaining inert, he lets himself fall in precipitation, in free fall, in a suicidal leap into the void, in a fall that describes tears, sweat, a broken branch, coins thrown into the air, a sticky thing in the skin, a hotchpotch of leaves and petals that bend and leak as if it were a head of hair, a fur, a disguise.