I sometimes imagine my blood is flaming. Like a thick, throbbing lava. My passion and anger burning with the same flame. I burn with desire. I burn with envy. I burn to say. I burn with rage. I burn, I burn. What incendiary fevers! The fire within me roars, tawny in its cage of bone and flesh. It lacerates me with its claws. Then I let it gush out like an insurrection, to change the world, to redesign images or metamorphose matter.

It is said that artists create with their blood.

In reality, artists create with their fire.

Gathered around this brasero that is the exhibition, they burn with the same desire to express this inner pyrotechnics of which art is the outlet. They burn like suns, mark out the night like candles, crackle like fireworks. Their works express the vivid glow of their fires: tortuous like the fire —real or metaphorical— that shaped them; light as a splash of brazing sequins; full of desire, fury, of those revolts that set souls ablaze like the streets. Sometimes they are even threatening, ready to ignite, or to make their delicate materiality explode. As if to leave their mark on the universe.

Here, under the cold dome, the fire of our entrails is blessed.