My practice moves across sound art, music scores, live drawing, mark-making, and mechanical sculpture because the question I keep asking cannot be answered by any single medium: What remains irreducibly human when behavior is increasingly structured by systems designed to predict, replicate, and optimize it? I work from the threshold — the performer reduced to measurable output, the automaton that trembles instead of performing precision, the human and the mechanical, grafted, without resolution. That threshold — between Humans as Machines and Machines as Human — is not a metaphor. It is where the work lives.

I keep coming back to the same moments. In Maquina Latina, the pre-score is the recorded shape of a pianist's failure to follow an accelerating metronome. On stage, he follows his own prior failures — while his stop-motion double runs on the screen with him. In my Monas, off-center weights and irregular cams capture exactly what a perfect mechanism was designed to eliminate: hesitation, vulnerability, the constant tremor of being alive. In the Post-COVID Series I used aborted AI processes to collapse images before they could resolve, then drew the results by hand — reintroducing hesitation where the algorithm was forced to abort form. In Teleprompter, the concert hall has always been a teleprompter — an institutional frame that tends to transform reading into interpretation, compliance into expression, and the performer's obedience into the audience's aesthetic experience. In Tent Visions I draw in the dark forest, translating what my dog could sense rather than what I could see.

I have lived between Mexico and Germany for over twenty years. That position — between cultures, between social registers — is the biographical version of the same threshold. I am interested in what survives translation. And in what, stubbornly, does not. The dog senses. The automaton trembles. The pianist becomes his own imperfect metronome. The birds don't come. I feel that they know something.