As the archive took shape, it became clear that this process was more than just documentation—it was a dynamic exchange between myself and Belén Uriel, an active engagement with her world. I had always approached this task as a facilitator, carefully translating her thoughts, but archiving sculpture demanded more involvement. I wasn’t just preserving her work—I was interpreting it, deciding what would endure, what should be highlighted, and how to encapsulate her evolving creative journey.
In all honesty, this process was daunting. Belén's process was tactile, physical, and deeply connected to the materiality of her work. The forms she created, and the way she interacted with space, could never be fully captured by static records. Sculpting is a dialogue with materials—glass, metal, plaster—where the artist negotiates with the resistance and potential of each substance. I had to find ways to archive not just the end products of this process, but the moments of hesitation, the experiments, and the detours.
These objects were as much a part of her process as the finished sculptures. Her studio was a living, breathing space, constantly evolving with each piece she created. It became clear that the archive needed to reflect this constant state of flux, rather than simply cataloging completed works. Belén was present throughout, actively involved in shaping how her journey was documented. Her insight was invaluable, and I learned quickly that the archive wasn’t just a static record of what she had made—it was a reflection of her ongoing relationship with her materials and the environment around her. She would often speak about how the sculptures emerged from the physical properties of the materials, how form followed the natural inclinations of the stone or the metal. This interplay between the artist and her medium became a key theme in how I organized the archive.
Yet, there was also a personal side to this process. Spending time with her journals and sketches made me more attuned to her vulnerability as an artist—the moments when she wasn’t sure a piece would come together, when she questioned whether the material could be coaxed into the form she envisioned. These reflections revealed the uncertainties and triumphs that lay behind the solid, seemingly permanent sculptures she created. I had to remind myself that these doubts were not signs of failure; they were essential parts of the creative process. The challenge for me was deciding what to include, and what might be left out, without losing the essence of her journey. I knew the archive would always be an incomplete snapshot, shaped by both our perspectives. Yet, in the imperfection of this collection, I found authenticity. The archive wasn’t about capturing everything—it was about capturing enough to tell the story of Belén’s relationship with her work, her materials, and her evolving artistic vision.
This archive, then, became not just a record for others but a space for me to reflect on the act of creation itself—both hers and my own in shaping this collection. What I was building was not a static representation but an evolving narrative, one that would continue to grow as Belén’s work expanded. As I move forward, I keep in mind the guiding question: how will this archive serve as a bridge between her creative process and future generations? Belén’s presence ensures that this archive remains a living entity—one that evolves, shifts, and grows, just as her sculptures do.
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