What really matters to him, ultimately, is how we visit, how we explore this geography. In its best moments, or rather its best spaces, Immemory offers us the invaluable sensation of being a child in the attic, exploring grandpa's old chestbox. There is an immense nostalgia that descends while listening to the old, Cuban music, or meeting Jules Verne mixed up with souvenirs that no one else can really share. It is a gesture of universality. It is a collection of utterly different things, apparently unrelated.
Art is like life, made from production and absorption.
So Immemory asks us questions pertinent to both art and memory. All of Immemory is about this dialectic. The conventional differences between the work of others and one's own work, or even the events of one's own life, are becoming increasingly blurred. This offers a vast amount of material from which to build a personal album - particularly so when it belongs to an artist whose vocation is precisely to preserve special moments of his life and thoughts, in one form or another. And, of course, as always when perusing someone else's private album, one experiences both passionate moments and stages of irritation or boredom.