The debris becomes apparent as you get closer – carefully chosen from the banks of the Thames by her collaborators, a group of local Latina women. Then their pale colours, which suggest bedsheets, ivory, bleached coral reefs. First, the enveloping size of the quipus that hang, like hair or jellyfish, from the steel beams of Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall. This is a gentle environment in which to broach extinction. The Chilean artist Cecilia Vicuña is interested in art as protest and in protest as spectacle, but she seems as insistent on possibility as on past wrongdoing. Feathery wisps of cotton are fastened to shells, hag stones, branches bearing berries, flint, glass polished by the river, broken terracotta, a round of driftwood, a handle or knob, and the bones of small animals, ascending – they seem to be ascending – to the sky. Diaphanous fabric is interwoven with rope. At the other end of the room, the mother is more elaborate: her strings twist around ladders plant fibres form wheels and trapezes. Some strands pool on the floor, others drift overhead. T he child is made of unspun wool, ripped linen in a tubular hollow, rope unlacing from its braid, knotted gauze and sleeves of protective net pulled apart into rows of diamonds, as tall as the hall.
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