The years go by and El postalero remains. It is said that it was started by a certain Azahara, from the remains of a previous project by Miguel-Ángel. They say that Dani and a certain Carlos resurrected Azahara’s project and then Dani continued with Louise and Elena. They say they don’t know who will continue the project and what they want to do with it. They don’t want to leave a will, so that whoever inherits the project will have their hands free.

The fact is that there it was, the postman, and between its thin iron bars it has not stopped accumulating layers of stories. There is something in objects-made-to-carry-other-objects that makes them indestructible. Photo frames, coat racks, shelves, bottle racks, clotheslines, suitcases, boxes, music stands. There is a void in them that insistently seeks to be filled, a desire to be used.

Something wants to emerge, to show itself, to make itself known. Hundreds of strange postcards have passed through its metal structure, half solid, half flimsy, in recent years: letters, fanzines, objects, maps, images, multiples, artistic contracts, performance protocols, photocopies, drawings, napkins, textiles, cassettes, earrings, circuits and cables… The postcard unfolds like paper, showing in each exercise an infinity of variations. Beautiful variation, repetition, coincidence and difference, which gives us words, the vocabulary of a scene.

In front of the imposing white cube, the lightness of the postcard. Air, art and life filter through it. I do not want to romanticize or rescue the much maligned “emerging art,” but I do want to celebrate that art that finds a way to sprout in lightness. A generation flows through the postcard. Although, more than a generation (closed, curated, read, studied, coherent, settled), the postcard is the infinitive of the verb: it is a generator or, at most, a generator. A support structure, like the queen’s chair, like a lamppost on which to mark a pause, like a bench on which to sit for a while.

There is no pretension. There is an outstretched hand, a set of artist's pieces demanding to be handled. If someone buys them, fine, but if many people touch them, even better. Postcards want to circulate, the works of the postcard maker want to be thrown into the world.

This condition of shuttle encloses a fundamental doubt about the postcard-carrier: is it a precarious imitation of the longed-for gallery and museum circuit? Or is it a parody, a Duchampian gesture that takes the seriousness out of art-as-thing and gives it to art-as-energy? Will the value of use or the value of exchange win? The artistic power of breaking up the everyday or counting the number of likes on the Instagram account? Do we want art as postcards or as statues? Do we want artists as postmen or as treasurers? Do we want cultural policies that multiply the number of postcard-carriers or that build great museums? Not everything is so binary… and luckily it is not about choosing, but about questioning oneself as seriously as jokingly. Cheerful as a laugh, irreverent as a laugh at a meeting of gentlemen, that is the postcard-carrier.

The postman, the postman, the postman. The postman from Granada has come to your house, to sharpen the knife and the razor, the iron, the art and the life.