According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, an interstice is a space that intervenes between things. This is what we propose in this page: Interstices, this means, to run the distance between two instants, which visually hits us with the fresh innocence of a child, with the words with which we bring that impression to fruition.
An interstice establishes new relationships between words and images, between voice and vision, between mouth and eye, and adapts itself to the old times, which always happen through the imagination roads.
An interstice demands having your eyes wide open: this is the only way to catch all those things trapped in the twilight of reality.
An interstice is not an opinion, is the chase of here and now; a hostage of the instant which has fallen in our lot, extrapolative and idiosyncratic.
An interstice does not create, but recreates the first knock we get when an instant sinks into the observation’s pupils, and we ooze it through the words, poised for rescue.
An interstice does not create anything: it just introduces virgin words as closed images.
An interstice is the precise compendium of what I see and what such vision suggests to me.
An interstice is a group of words with an image complementing the meaning, or an image in need of words for being discovered.
An interstice needs evenly photography finiteness and word eternity.
An interstice works the synaesthetic varieties which, due to shyness or sloth, have never had the opportunity to emerge for showing to words and images that there are other worlds within this world.
An interstice does not explain reality, but lives in the outskirts of reality.
An interstice does not make itself up; it adapts what established and reinterprets it from the perspective of a subjective objectivity.
An interstice applies a statue silence to the whispers of verve.
An interstice releases the original sight-thought correlation from the jaws of logic.
An interstice tries to be fresh air breathing between what we were (open-mouthed kids) and what we are (closed-mouthed adults).
An interstice is a flash of (un)reality, a second elusively claiming for us to give a personal and subjective explanation for all of us being able to objectively recognize each other.
An interstice is mere and pure anatomy of a twinkling; this is why words cannot equal the thousand ones that the (liar) tradition states.
An interstice’s duty is to remind us we are adultorous: people who, when grown up, have been unfaithful to all we say we would not do when we were adults.
An interstice cannot be prepared. Life’s out there, we just have to stop it through an image, which needs to be explained to itself.
An interstice connects truth of words with authenticity of visions.
An interstice is, in its own existence: should you go back to it, if it would be still there, it would keep on being; however, the one you caught would be there no more.
An interstice embraces the primitive alliance between signifier and significance, between denotation and connotation, among present world and its ancestors and heirs.
An interstice is complete harmony between image and word. Both are necessary for a heuristic understanding of vivid and lived experience.
An interstice is able to explain human existence through the bridges of talent.
An interstice is a rumour came true.
An interstice fills out with words the seams every image shows.
An interstice confirms the presence of human dullness.
An interstice mixes ‘ours’ with ‘other’s’, what we are with what we are able to become.
An interstice can be poetic, or mathematic, or philosophical, or humoristic, or critical, or literary, or historical, or everything at the same time, or none of them.
An interstice can be loved or hated, but will never live under indifference.
An interstice shall never be circumspect.
An interstice cannot be ubiquitous: we must wait for the internal flame caused by words, which brings the image when pushing the photo button for stopping the instant following the letters’ rhythm.
An interstice is eternal and immediate, and changes at the same time that the watchers’ sight changes.
An interstice lives in a HERE and in a NOW, but should it happen later and in another place, it would also be an interstice, different, but, after all, an interstice.
Traducción al inglés: Nieves Benito Taberné