Erwin Leano paints the elemental pauses and intervals of the moment.
Like the passage of thick nimbus over a cowering plain, each encounter hangs suspended and anxious even as the viewers remain sheltered in their private shells.
We take this silent walk with the painter and notice an expectant chair against a bare wall, counting the hours with each shadow cast. We hear the veiled cry of a young girl on a stool - an overture to forgetting. We are lured into an open window - to bare shoulders that shed gestures and countenance to the periphery, pass the secret steps and immobile shadows behind slits of heavy wooden doors. The black umbrella shade comes to view through the vanishing point of an empty Sun-day crossroad.
There is the dusk of melancholy in a solitary rocking chair left abandoned in the open, obscured by the browns of nostalgia transfixed like one figure in era costume pegged onto the concrete pavement of days gone by.
Half-remembered landscapes with foliage markers on a topography of small feet and laboured walks lead to an abandoned folk carriage wading in the pool of history.
Man is nostalgia, says Octavio Paz.
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