Manuel Maciá Eric Erku in Utopia C/ Passatge nº 4. Until 22 June. I am an abject being. A dead loss, product of frustration. I have never succeeded in living of my art. I have had to pick almonds, cotton, to work in serigraphy factories, in the shoe industry, designing shop windows, toys, shops, designing the undesignable. After that, giving lessons to insufferable teenagers in highschool  and also to apprentices to artist in the Fine Arts faculty. I have artworks in a Museum because the Head of the purchase dept. liked my bottom. My exhibitions can be counted by sales failures, visitor failures and notcritics failures, because there never appeared any art critic in any of them. My video actions are exhibited in marginal circuits or in congresses of lost souls. Part of my sculptures are rotting outside in my garden, as stranded boats, the other part sold by weight in the Car-breaking. My performances (which I sometimes succeed in being paid for) are received with nervous laughter by my friends, with great merrymaking by my enemies and with indifference by most people. My sexual life is a disaster. I f** little, with no happiness and the pleasures I gave myself watching the TV shop (which were my consolation) aren't possible anymore, because consumption has stopped to excite me. That is why, frustrated, overflowing bile, I live one step away of blowing my mind. That is why, now that they pay me to be an art critic, my fangs start growing and my mouth fills with saliva. That is why, Eric Erku, you shouldn't listen to what I think of your works, it's probably the result of my anger and my dishonesty. You, Eric erku, go on painting these things. Don't listen to me.