In your sculpture work you handle different materials in their natural state creating contrast between shape and texture, for example, concrete blocks and river stones. Why do you prefer to use materials in their natural state to create your work?

I am very interested in the uniqueness of natural materials, their unique and unrepeatable state. The fact that no two stones are the same on the entire planet, just as no two seashells are the same, for example. I am very interested in stones as a foundational element of human culture, having been used during all of history, for example from the Carnac alignments, as objects of veneration, to build mystical-religious sites, tombs or, later, great palaces.

However, human beings have always had the desire to control the stone, carving it to give it a shape according to their own will. And so concrete enters history. I call it “the stone that man created.” And I am very much interested in the opposite, the contrast in comparison with materials that are industrialized and that you can find being identical in China, France, Brazil or Mexico as a convention of human communication, so those materials can be used to build in equal measures and sizes. Which is the total opposite of building with stones and natural elements.

It seems to me that the smooth texture of concrete is in some way the neutralization of singularity, while the stone is the vestige and strength of the origin.

You make references to minimalism based on the use of pure materials, but in turn you challenge it by breaking the order and uniform repetition which are characteristic of this genre. Can you tell us about this contrast? 

I like to think that every system has errors and that these cracks are propitious to poetry. Let’s say, as much as wabi-sabi, error could be a starting point for a poetic end or the expansion or understanding of beauty. So, I like to invoke minimalism to find the crack or grain in the wood that allows the opposition between the linear geometry typical of the aspiration for human perfection and the whimsical and organic geometry, like in the branch of a tree.

I remember that when visiting Marfa, something that I will never forget is that the Judd’s 100 metal boxes have been moved by circumstances that cannot be explained well and are still being studied. This is a beautiful reminder that even the utmost work of minimalism is not exempt from the powers of nature which will move it a little. Life will find a way to break that order.

The way you compose sculptures, accentuating balance and tension, creates the sensation of a certain instability in the structure. Why do you create precarious sculptures?  

The precariousness in the balance intensifies a sensation of danger in the spectator, which in turn alerts the senses, the reflection of the position in one’s space, and the concentration needed to contemplate. In a way, it generates a demand for attention that in these times, when attention has such a short span, helps to create a space of intimacy between the work of art and the viewer.

At the same time, I am interested in emphasizing a precarious balance. We are talking about a rigid balance ... This is pointing out what is needed, to show the absence of something through the presence of its opposite.

Thus, we can reflect on the force of gravity, which we take for granted and, therefore, we frequently forget. I am interested in making it present through this set of balances, so as not to forget that the very act of walking upright is a challenge to gravity and a symbol of humanity, a statement of intent.

Gravity has shaped and influenced the history of sculpture like no other “material” or force.

Where does your fascination for the laws of physics come from?

They come from my past when I studied architecture. I had a class that left a mark on me called “Practical Structures.” It no longer exists in the university, they canceled it because they considered it obsolete.

This class tried to understand the forces of physics that govern the way materials behave in space in terms of their weight and characteristics.

You could not enter the class carrying a notebook. It was not about calculating anything with numbers. It was not a mathematical calculus class but empirical and based in common sense.

Problems had to be solved. For instance, we had to build a one-meter long bridge made of balsa wood for the professor to pass over it on his bicycle.

It was fascinating to realize that materials are “alive” in terms of how they behave “to stand up for themselves” in this world. Without that understanding, it is impossible to create a deep artistic composition. Over my years in sculpturing, it was impossible for me not to return to these reflections and to the understanding of physics as an essential part, as a basic variable in the equation of the sculptural work.

about jose dávila

Jose Dávila is a Mexican artist, born in 1974, whose work is a multidisciplinary endeavor that presents a series of material and visual aporias: paradoxes that permit the coexistence of frailty and resistance, rest and tension, geometric order and random chaos. Dávila explores issues of form and content via a variety of mediums including photographic cutouts, sculpture, and large-scale installations. His practice draws from the minimalist tradition of both art and architecture, often referencing the visual vocabularies of modernist masters as a stepping-stone to embark upon artistic exploration.

Jose Dávila lives and works in Guadalajara, Mexico.