“Something that impacted me enormously was discovering that the first piece I made, at the age of four in 1972, is connected to all my work from these first 30 years of my career,” Gabriel de la Mora told us when we spoke with him about the retrospective of the last 20 years of his career currently on display at the Jumex Museum.

And that phrase—spoken with the serenity of someone who has spent decades classifying, counting, dissecting, and transforming matter as if rereading his own life—summarizes the spirit of La Petite Mort better than anything else.

The exhibition not only spans two decades of work, but also allows us to see for the first time the underlying thread that connects it: an obsessive drive to reveal what remains when something wears down, burns, is cut, or is lost; her obsession with transformation and the patience that characterizes her work. Curated by Tobias Ostrander, the exhibition unfolds as a journey through different states of desire and disappearance: of the body offered as a surface, of the skin that archives memory, of the material that dies to transform into something else.

In these rooms, Gabriel de la Mora confirms something that in his studio seems almost a physical law: “art is neither created nor destroyed, it is only transformed .” And in changing, he also exposes the artist. Because looking closely at these pieces—sometimes so meticulous that they force the body to approach almost to the point of holding its breath—is to look at the compulsion, the patience, the mental levitation, and the intimate archive that sustain his work.

La Petite Mort is an exhibition about loss, yes. But also about how that loss becomes knowledge, aesthetic pleasure and, above all, continuity: an unexpected bridge between a drawing made by a four-year-old child and an artist who, more than thirty years later, continues to strive to keep his work suspended in the air… without touching the ground.

What kind of “loss” do you seek to provoke in the viewer with your work?

Whenever something is lost, something is gained. By losing matter, for example, new information is revealed: wear and tear, an action, time. Loss thus becomes another form of knowledge.

I mean perhaps that in this world everything that exists is here to fulfill a function or a service; when this ends, the end of something can transform into the beginning of something else.

My definition of art is a parallel to the definition of energy: Art is neither created nor destroyed, it is only transformed.

The title suggests both pleasure and extinction. Is there a point where desire and death become indistinguishable for you within the artistic process?

The exhibition's title, "La petite mort" or "Little Death," was chosen by curator Tobias Ostrander. Citing an article written by Susan Crowley about the exhibition, he shares the following: "For Georges Bataille, ' la petite mort' does not refer to the physical act of dying; it is a metaphor for the extreme experience where consciousness is momentarily suspended by intense pleasure."

Tobias somehow points towards physical and aesthetic pleasure.

Death marks the end of something, which at the same time marks the beginning of something else through transformation.

Your processes are full of sorting, dissecting, counting, and accumulating. What part of your psyche is activated when you engage in that extreme meticulousness?

I don't know if "obsession" or "repetition" would be the answer to this question, but the process is very important to me in everything. Classification and archiving are another essential part of my work: everything that happens before or during the transition from an idea to a piece or a work is something the public generally doesn't see, and I like to document it in various ways; these notes and records form part of the archive for each piece or series.

Repetition, in reality, does not exist: there will never be two identical things, because differences always arise in every attempt. As Gilles Deleuze says in his book  Difference and Repetition  (1968), which, curiously, is also my birth year, every repetition is, in itself, a variation.

I noticed that something that characterizes your work is patience, which seems to operate almost as a parallel mental state. What have you discovered about yourself in those processes of your work that only exist in slowness?

Patience is one of the many key elements in my work, and this becomes evident when I place hundreds or thousands of eggshell fragments onto a wooden panel, counting each one. In the end, the total number of fragments on the surface will be the title of the work—a number only revealed upon completion.

Doing a job that requires concentration and involves repeated actions leads you to a state close to meditation, and that's precisely where a large number of ideas appear, which are noted down and wait for the moment to be explored and executed.

Working in the studio is similar to meditating, and all of this leads to what you mention in the question, to levitation or slowness among many other elements or factors.

The silence, activated by the click of each counter when each fragment is pasted, generates a very special state: a continuous note to infinity, a state in which any color disappears leaving an absolute white surrounded by ideas, I don't know if time stops or disappears, I don't know if in this state one breathes and this somehow makes real one of the many dreams I have had since childhood: it is to fly and walk without touching the ground, slow and cold.

What attracts you to materials that others would consider waste? Are you interested in their history, their energy content, or their status as residue?

Waste is something that has fulfilled its original function and is about to be thrown away or disappear. All these materials contain information about the action or purpose they once served; they carry their own energy. Through various processes, and with the support and guidance of restorers, I halt this deterioration: they are consolidated to extend the life of these materials transformed into art, preserving them for as long as possible and in the best possible condition.

I seek to answer all the questions that arise in each material that attracts me and that I begin to collect. I'm also interested in how an idea can lead to a work of art, how a group of works can generate a series, and sometimes even a new technique . When that happens, for me, the perfect series or pieces emerge. I love getting excited about certain ideas, but I enjoy it even more when the results surpass all expectations and end up being so much more than I could have imagined or hoped for.

You say that the artist neither creates nor destroys, but transforms. What made you let go of the romantic idea of ​​the artist as a “creator”?

The same thing that has led me to question everything about authorship, in the end the only thing that matters and the only thing that will always exist will be the work of art that will constantly change until it disappears; and when this happens it will transform into something else.

That's why I maintain that in the pyramid of art there are only four letters: those of ART or WORK, since everything else, including the artist, will disappear. That's why the Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City is my favorite museum, one I try to visit constantly. There, no names exist, no artists; the wood and stone carvings have lost their color, their polychromy, and yet they remain masterpieces, sometimes even avant-garde.

How does your work engage with the idea of ​​skin: as a border, as an archive, or as a surface of desire?

Skin is a subject that has always interested me, and perhaps that's why I arrived at the series of paintings in which I mix my blood with varnish in successive layers until I achieve the tone of my skin, then apply various cuts with a razor blade. In a way, this generates self-portraits and connects with the beginnings of painting, even evoking cave paintings.

I am drawn to the idea of ​​skin as a border, as an archive and also as a surface of desire: the line that divides the inside from the outside, life from death.

Some pieces require almost intimate proximity to be seen. What does it mean to you to bring the viewer's body close to a microscopic scale?

I'm fascinated by the idea of ​​the viewer approaching the artwork without touching it. When this happens, the pieces are activated, and somehow the energy of those looking at them is absorbed by the materials and the artwork itself. All of this is stored as information, and the audience, in a way, becomes part of the piece.

If death is latent in your processes, what does it mean for you to make works that end up entering collections and museums, where they are "preserved"?

At the beginning of my career, I kept everything I made; I liked to control and preserve each piece in its best condition. I found it very difficult to let go of, give away, sell, or release works, because I was afraid they would be damaged or even lost.

Over time I learned to let go, because it also excites me when someone likes a piece or my work and wants to own it, buy it, and, thanks to that, allows me to live from what I love most: being an artist and making art.

Every piece that leaves the studio has to sting a little. Sometimes, when a piece doesn't sell and comes back to me, I love seeing it again and having it as part of my collection. The only reason I would allow a piece to leave my collection is if a museum were interested in acquiring something from that series. That's one of the few ways a piece would cease to be mine: to become part of an institutional collection, to be exhibited, and to be engaged by the public. Furthermore, museums take exceptional care, which allows the works to remain in the best possible condition for as long as possible.

What role does compulsion play in your work? Is it a driving force, a method, or a consequence?

Everything and nothing at the same time. Compulsion, obsession, repetitive behaviors, passion, and intensity are some of the many characteristics that define me.

As Billy Elliot would say when trying to describe what dance is to him:  electricity . Electricity is also a word that could answer this question: it is engine, method, impulse, and consequence.

I spend almost all my time in the studio. I only stop working for the day because I have to eat, sleep, and rest; otherwise, I'd be working and thinking 24/7. Sometimes I work out pieces or solve problems in my dreams; that's why I always have a notebook and pencil on my nightstand. Occasionally, I get up in the middle of the night to jot down an idea or work something out. Even when I'm walking or driving, I'm still working mentally, thinking, imagining pieces and series.

I usually only complete maybe 3% of everything I write. Inspiration comes from the work itself and from the ideas, and that continuous cycle is how I live, think, and work, whether I'm in the studio or at home.

After 20 years of work brought together in a single exhibition, what surprised you most about rediscovering yourself?

The 87 pieces in the exhibition span 22 years of my career, within a total period of 30 years (1996–2026). Many of the works in  La Petite Mort  are being exhibited for the first time.

Something that has surprised me greatly is that several collectors, critics, curators, and friends—people who have followed my work for years—have told me they thought they knew him, and that upon seeing the exhibition they realized they didn't really know him. They are moved and surprised, and hearing that makes me reflect deeply.

I see each exhibition as if it were my first; I'm thrilled that what I enjoy most about my work is what I'm doing now and what's to come . Of course, there will always be key pieces along the way, but I hope the day never comes when the best of my work is 10 or 20 years old. If that were to happen, I'd have to rethink everything… or perhaps consider retiring, although I've always believed that an artist doesn't retire: an artist's retirement is death.

Something that greatly impacted me was discovering that the first work I did, at the age of four in 1972, is connected with all my work from these first 30 years of my career.

And there was one piece that particularly shook me:  Memory I , the family portrait made with skulls, from the  Compass of Questions series  (2007). I hadn't seen it for over ten years. During the installation, the supports and the 17 skulls were on the floor, ready to be set up. Seeing them there hit me hard.

David was filming the process, and with him were Kit Hammonds, curator of the Jumex Museum, and Tobias Ostrander, curator of the exhibition. I felt tears welling up; I stopped breathing for a moment and slowly backed away. David stopped filming, and suddenly there was absolute silence. As I stepped back and looked at Kit and Tobias, who were serious and staring at the floor, I burst out.

I was struck by the fact that the artwork depicted the skulls of my grandmother and mother, both of whom are no longer with us, and that deeply moved me. In a way, that piece sparked the beginning of the exhibition's installation, a project I initially didn't fully understand, but which, seeing it finished, I can say is the best exhibition I've presented to date.

Even so, every museum or gallery exhibition I've had has been impeccable and significant. And I hope that those to come will always be better than the last, just like my work and everything I do. I wish to never stop being excited and surprised, and to always remain happy… without losing sight of reality.

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