Saturday afternoon. It's starting to get dark and the street is slowly filling up. Finding an empty table at that moment becomes a reason to celebrate and whatever I'm eating tastes better. 

I am sitting in my chair in my room. My agile and sensitive gaze begins to move through the photographic archive of past exhibitions of the El Postalero project. There are many people and a festive atmosphere. 

I continue observing and find gestures, many gestures. And I imagine them too. A single device articulates an entire social gathering. It seems to be the pretext, but also the occasion to disarticulate the relationship between the body and space. 

I go out onto the terrace. There's a party going on across the street between two balconies. How lucky he is, I tell myself. 

I go in and sit down again. It's 8:26 p.m. I write:

Accustomed to being kept in pockets or crossed between arms, hands establish a common and invisible language in many art reception spaces. Their movement depends on who is looking: those eyes that walk from left to right and from bottom to top. Maintaining a distance from the pieces on display, hands shrink (on us). As if, to a certain extent, the world were no longer touched by us. 

It is curious how the words we use to describe the movement of our hands - "to take", "to grasp", "to hold", "to seize", "to manipulate", "to produce", "to elaborate" - have become too abstract concepts, often forgetting that their meaning has been taken from the concrete movement they produce. I wonder if our thinking has been shaped by these organs. I imagine a squid and its eight arms. I have probably never seen it write or calculate unless it could gesture with its arms as if they were hands. 

The fingers and how the thumb opposes them; the fingertips and how they touch each other; the palms and how they close into a fist; the hand and how it is reflected in the other; the object and how the hand grasps it. It is not enough to say that the world is “within reach” if we seek to understand our position within it. With our two hands we embrace the world from opposite sides, making it perceptible, comprehensible, palpable and capable of manipulation. Unlike the squid, we do not embrace it from eight sides. 

It seems paradoxical how the interaction of the body with a postcard maker can contain so many gestures. At the same time that our eyes approach smaller pieces, our hands are no longer so still. Turning, holding, moving or approaching become indispensable verbs for the encounter with the artist and his/her proposal. The postcard maker becomes a pretext for celebration for radical imagination. The rules of the game - moving, turning, stopping or touching - could be those of a dance floor. And even if we record on video the lines and curves that our hands trace, we would undoubtedly have an image of our being in the world. 

I wonder to what extent our gestures determine and mobilize a body that seems to be trapped by the programmed nature of its behavior. Would it be possible to rebel against the perceptual conditioning to which rituals subject us? How do artistic practices allow us to create new rituals from which to establish other modes of connection with the other(s)?

The Postal Worker opens up the possibility of looking at a piece as if holding a postcard. A gesture in which all the senses are put to work. The distance to the object is shortened and at the same time our bodies come closer. At times, the thing is seen in detail and the atmosphere smells of paper, plastic and sweat.