In the silence of the páramo, matter holds a contained voice.
A crumpled sheet of paper in the studio. A wooden surface intentionally broken.
A fragment recovered from drift. A color darkened by the trace of smoke. A thin line of gold interrupting the gloom.

Yet, throughout my creative process, I have come to understand that the silence of matter is not an absence of voice: it is a pulse still held back.

I inhabit my art from phytotropism: that action and profound stimulus I receive from plants. It is not merely a gaze toward nature; it is the way the plant universe orients my thought, my body and my sensitivity. My work does not aim to offer a simple idyllic representation of flora; it is a living response to its capacity for adaptation, to the plasticity of its roots and to the stubbornness with which a frailejón continues to grow even after being grazed by fire or fracture.

MURMURO installs itself precisely in that contradictory and tense space between the subtle whisper and the presence that demands to be heard. A murmuring clamor.

The murmur is that which is barely heard, the low breath of the earth. The clamor is the collective force that cannot be ignored. Between these two extremes a tension is woven: a voice that begins low, almost imperceptible, and that gradually acquires body and matter.

In these works, it is smoke that constructs the darks. Smoke does not merely paint or darken: smoke deposits, erases, veils, gently burns and leaves a physical scar. The elements I recover incorporate into the canvas the weight of a prior memory. The crumpled paper preserves the gesture of having been altered by my hands. The deliberate ruptures in the wood introduce a controlled violence, a brusque interruption that becomes part of the composition. And gold appears in a punctual, almost clandestine way, like a persistent light that refuses to disappear into shadow.

Nature in my work does not appear intact either. Plant forms survive among stains, soot, remnants and wounds. They are images of pure persistence: the certainty that something continues to pulse even when the environment seems to have been devastated.

That is why my works do not seek to resolve their own contradictions. They sustain them and keep them open to the viewer.

What is resistant is, even so, fragile. The dark contains light.
From the broken, beauty can arise. Murmur can become clamor.

In the end, the one who murmurs in these rooms is me. MURMURO is a personal invitation to draw near, to pause the outer noise and look at what speaks in a low voice.
To listen carefully to all that matter says when it seems to have lost its voice.

Kindly,
Ser Jiménez