(...) it is raining. But it looks like the swaying of an old chandelier. I love those things that aren't what they are. Something like a tremor that is not a tremor. A whisper that comes from some closed room. In 1999 I went to live in a coastal town called Niebla, in the south of Chile. It was a small wooden house on stilts, under which there was no water, but ground. That same year, I began research in chemistry, on two elements, Erbium (Er68) and Promethium (Pm61), both belonging to the so-called lanthanides or rare earths. Now I live in Paris, 21 years have passed since then. Nowadays, the earth is strange. And that sensation is translated into a color, a very particular grey, which in my memory only Erbium possesses. Perhaps it is the grey of the end of things. Or that of loneliness. A feeling that erupted even more strongly during the pandemic. This work is constructed with images from my own photographic archive. It is a way of looking for a translation of the strangeness of the outside, and that of my own. A diary written in my kitchen, from which to watch the outside that I could only imagine and that, I felt, was crumbling.