Calculando los Ángulos de Vuelo

A sharply cut, synthetic red wig commands the view from behind, crowning an emerald green dressmaker's dummy that refuses to turn its face to the viewer. The composition is built with surgical neatness: a stage-like box of brown folding screens encloses the figure, leaving only a strip of overcast sky across the upper third, the sole sign of open atmosphere against a rigorously measured confinement.

At the center, a pair of wings cut from plywood seeks the miracle of flight through everyday improvisation. Duct tape, a target, a cardboard fin, and a yellow sticky note turn Icarus's longing into a domestic, precarious, and stubborn apparatus. The meticulous precision of the oil paint reproduces each grain of wood, the gleam of metal, and the flocked texture of the mannequin with nearly photographic clarity, yet entirely at the service of a disquieting poetry.

Arranged across the table, the scattered objects function as components of an impossible equation. A combination square with a spirit level, a stacked tower of arithmetic blocks, an open padlock, and a tiny toy airplane beside its wrapping suggest that taking off is as much a physical challenge as it is a playful or mental puzzle. Suspended from above, a lone wrench hangs by a strap, casting a sharp silhouette onto the screen alongside the mannequin's own looming shadow.

That magnified shadow against the back wall confirms that the weight of the interior space perpetually competes with the illusion of ascent. Borrasé crafts a theater of trial and error, where the surrogate body seeks escape not through raw impulse, but through the patient accumulation of angles, numbers, and seams.