the entire universe inundates us with its waves (long not short), murmurs, diverse signals, explosions, impacts, scintillations and other solar, stellar, nebular and galactic noises. our planet, moreover, is an old bellows in slow and constant movement and deflation, all of which makes the world around us an en-chantment, this is an infinitesimal but certain musica irregularis, usually only scarcely perceptible. only by being quiet and quieting all that is superfluous can we open the indispensable space where the subtle, iridescent infinite humming speech can be strained from all that surrounds us (minerals, waters, gasses and fires).

in almost all cultures, sound, apart from being described using words, has also been 'drawn' (and even sculpted), even if only to fix and perpetuate something that has sounded and been taken as useful and/or beautiful: from sumerian cuneiform clay tablets, or closer to hand, the discontinuous 'neumes' of the books of medieval clerks, to its beginning swimming 'in campo aperto', with time classifying this neumatic writing in and between lines-cells (diastematic writing), which will give rise - among other 'grammas' - to the known 'pentagram' in which more or less cultured western music has been fixed since renaissance times to today.

this thick field of fertile synesthesiae has been interwoven, whether through drawing or even sowing pentagrams with words and phrases, as our erik satie did, or converting expentagrams into forests or star maps like the omniattentive john cage would do, or watering the 'still' life of the cubists with musical keys and pentagrams, or making us listen to the very colours like paul klee would do, or carefully noting certain 'sound colours' in the orchestral and organ scores of the very french works of olivier messiaen.

there is no doubt that an 'escucha retiniana' exists, just as tactile and olfactory ones do (noses hear very harmonically, through fundamentals and scales of very different natures in harmonics and continuances). indeed, images clearly are heard (the racket in a bosch contrasts with the scarcely audible stillness of a vermeer), as do sculptures, some which murmur discretely, on the edge of a breath while the most imposing are a chaotic scream.

in fact, this vibrational state, which all sound is, acquires an acoustic material nature of a patently plastic form once and again: remember the restless blurred coming and going that our eyes capture when a cello, piano or guitar cord starts to vibrate, something as visible as it is buzzing to our cochlea. on the other hand, music, however abstract and mathematical it may seem to us, will always in some way be that melody whose text, in schopenhauer's words, is the world.

ángela galindo's scores can produce an indigestion of seeing/hearing in us, the gluttons that we may be, since her painting puts us in a state of audioretinal reverberation and resonance, so much that if it were not for the spatial-repetitive restraint of her painting in rows (diastematic decagrams), which injects some calm, it might produce a chill, since this is radically acoustic painting: via sound-dream, via analogy, via convention, her 'earth scores' are real scores, i.e., 'texts' that speak unsuspectingly to our audio as well, reaffirming the cagian axiom that 'an ear alone is not a being'.

through her painting, half-closed and changeable (far from all clairvoyance), the ear-eye is forced to wander, not in all directions, but horizontally, guided by some rows that direct us right left, or invite us to jump to the next register, where, except in very dear-rare occasions, we stroll through more of the same, travelling in harmony with what came before and what will come, i.e., practising what musicians call variation (variation, along with repetition - always virginal and again - contains all compositional knowledge).

furthermore, music, like all art, is a 'compositum' of instantaneousness and melancholy (an echo that is a past imperfect): these paintings by ángela galindo also show us their 'vanitas vanitatum', i.e., they delight us in their immediate fruition at the same time that they draw out the line in which memory (time) is diluted. this painting, which concerns us today, indeed contains seductive harmonies, natural rhythms and light counterpoints, but with fugatos to a fraught past and, especially, painting in combustion, a burning that, via pigment, transmutes us into ash and dust on a sackcloth support.