When we look at Max Caffell’s work we find ourselves first of all in front of a presence, and yet this presence is the hardest to identify: the trace of what has been there and is no more.
The space is dedicated to the body and to its absence, cut through by the memory of a passage. A silent theatre in which the main characters are indexes, empty shells, a fragment, a cast, a chair where somebody has been sitting. All the rest is impalpable, transient like a contrail.
But where, when?
Just here, but not now, no more, not yet.
In front of us, the theatre is still alive. Something has happened, something is about to happen.
Some call it sculpture. And though, if sculpture is a pastiche from life, here the ellipsis of the third dimension breaks up any loan from reality.
Still, we find ourselves eyewitnesses. Of what, we cannot tell.
The air is filled with a silent echo.