Future fossils grow on the mountainside

It is almost certain that fireflies’ abdomens have been lighting up in the darkness for more than 99 million years. And yet, something prevents us from confirming the theory with absolute certainty: although it has been discovered that these insects already possessed the biological hardware necessary to glow, the spark that ignites the torch—the catalytic enzyme—dissolved without leaving a trace in the amber. If science is concerned with facts—wherever verifiable theories are demanded—then painting can only enter like a crack, offering itself as a technology of and for the imagination of those who have chosen uncertainty, contradictions, and simulation. Denise Julieta—who, coincidentally, shares her name with one of my greatest idols in science, Julieta Fierro—has no ambition to become the next hegemonic scientific illustrator of the twenty-first century, although I am certain she went through that phase when we all wanted, under the shadow of Sagan and Cousteau, to explore the cosmos and the depths of the oceans. What Denise does long for is to construct an archaeology of her own, a paleontology of the subtle, where she can explore hypotheses about lost soft matter that left no record and, from there, build fictional universes: landscapes of memory where extinction is not a form of cynical resignation in the face of the environmental and social collapse we are living through, but rather a regenerative and optimistic territory. Through an almost cinematic sequence, Denise unfolds macro and microscopic views of hypersurreal territories where time is not linear. The artist draws inspiration from biological ecosystems that could just as easily be a mirage in the eternal darkness of the Mariana trench or on a cliff of Vesta—the planet featured in the science-fiction series Scavengers Reign. In these scenes, human existence is completely excluded from the narrative. In fact, Denise turns to a saturation of biomorphisms and horror vacui to make the absence of humanity all the more striking. In the wider shots, such as Serpiente del cráter, it is not only the arrangement and distance between the specimens that draw attention, but also the tension created between what is seen and what remains hidden: a bestial creature lurks in the background. It is fear that brings us back to the present, prompting us to question how these bodies relate to the petrified landscape, to those cliffs shaped by the sedimentation and metamorphosis of minerals. These are transformations imperceptible to the human eye, as they can only be measured in eons and geological eras. Geological time forces us to put into perspective, and even to ridicule, the insignificance and fragility of human experience. In Prado calcáreo, the organisms take on a social dimension. Here, absence resides in alienation and in the lack of a visible connective tissue between species. Although the landscape creates a sense of unease, it also raises urgent questions about collectivity and relationships of competition, dependence, and mutual aid. Perhaps what we cannot perceive at first glance is a radical interdependence hidden beneath the surface. Perhaps these limestone skeletons bear witness to a shift of power and dominance toward a more equitable terrain. The zoom in continues into a domestic setting. Vasija preclásica para una flora desconocida is a pictorial haiku in which the entire universe fits inside an armadillo. Denise Julieta is known for this kind of still life: clusters of organisms that emerge spontaneously from the relics of other times. They are remnants of extinct civilizations, disruptive traces of time serving as the sole testimony to human life; they are nature’s revenge. They function as metaphors for permanence, resilience, and abandonment, suspended between a speculative past and the ruins of the future. Finally—as if we had witnessed a courtship ritual—the closer we get to the peephole, the more the distance disappears. In Entre-lazos, we enter an intimate sphere where the organisms are completely intertwined, and we can see one organism’s defense mechanisms activating to pierce the other. The tension here is different: it arises from both restraint and attraction. The danger of one organism hurting the other remains ever-present. Yet it coexists with tenderness and care in touch; the bodies surrender and cease striving to remain apart. We stop thinking about paleobotany, fiction, and archaeology and begin to think about human relationships. We are reminded, then, of one of psychotherapist Esther Perel’s lessons on desire: the constant need to reconcile the two most basic and opposing impulses—security and risk. Karla Niño de Rivera