light sculptures

akin to a pious act ✨

Ramblings

Juan A. Franco Ricardo. Flip Book, 2025. Digital photograph or melancholic performance. [a staged act to capture the written words of the act recorded, but the stop and blurriness one could not predict. a journal with handwritten notes in pencil, if flipped through on a wooden table. the flying page cuts through and slices the diagonal line of the square format. a pen pretends to have written anything in that journal, but that pen is much too recent of a possession to have ever graced those particular pages. the rest is still unwritten ._. ]

i looked through the old journal on sunday morning while deciding the course of my day. in the horizon, there was a decadent hot chocolate with a dear friend. there was also the mark of the coming cold front with a promise of snow, ice, and a change of regimes. the bike ride over to the farmacy was punctured with frigid gusts, inconsiderate cars in the bike lanes, and a touch of dread. there is a resurfacing that occurs, a water that boils over the simmering pot. these memories, like bubbles, bursting a splash of tiny hot burns. whether you salt your water or not, it should eventually stop. at the shop, i arrived early and was accidentally served two solo espresso(s) [i am not sure about that s]. i sat down amongst a growing crowd of families with children, the single and coupled queers and the hungry first-timers; the place is best as an after lunch or dinner spot, i heard the owner say. in dear conversation, all settles. in friendship, a lot is shared throughout many years, i guess, more than a decade now. in those moments, as i sip a salted caramel chocolate treat, i understand i am not falling behind, rather i am leaping forward and doing all i can. that’s enough.

when you don't show up
you end up a                                                 memory
and eventually
forgotten • becoming my own stranger

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Studio

Juan A. Franco Ricardo. Sketch with Tree, 2022. Graphite on paper. [i wish i could remember where i drew this. a tall, proud tree rises at the right of the frame. its branches marked with erratic lines turning from jagged zig zags to interlocking ellipses to looping curves. behind it, a structure of sorts or maybe a wall. memory has lost me. its built from interlocking blocks at the top, a lighter gray wash in the middle, and these repeating vertical lines that add a sense of support. the perspectives sit on top of each other, as if cubism took over my hand].

the act of drawing is an act of sculpting light. at least when the drawing is made observational. these are often my best drawings. the ones where i stand in front of the subject. a pious act perhaps. a reverence towards the translation i am about to perform. there is this head movement of looking up and looking down on repeat. en bucle. what we find beautiful or inspiring, it often comes without reason. sometimes all we are left with is a drawing in a journal. a forgotten subject transcribed on paper. there is preciousness in the disconnect. an already-forgotten history detaches the marks from their reference. the paradox of recording a moment without recollection. i am surrounded by these drawings, these little sculptures of light. and i will probably never stop making them. thank goodness.

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Scraps

1. a little light sculpture (drawing) of a couple holding hands. 2. snow covering the streets (and cars) 3. silly silly person with hot chocolate. 4. an artwork of mario 5. the moon reflected in the morning. 6. a hand with three rings over a package from a familiar place. 7. another blessing 8. it's in celsius by the way 9. cropped screenshot of another grid of mustaches