The Iberia does not exist.

Or it exists only on stage, the one instant in which it becomes real.

It is a spectre, an ethereal spirit adrift in the air, stripped of any form, waiting to be summoned into being. Only then does the Iberia appear. Only then can you see it, join it, and become part of the figure it has turned into through sound. When we are, the audience is.

The Iberia comes into being in fractions of a second. In those instants when the audience stops looking and starts to feel: like clouded water turning clear, like order emerging out of chaos, like clay that becomes a figure and then something else. It cannot be pinned down. It cannot be possessed. It can only be passed through.

We are not the sum of anything.
We are the form that appears for an instant, like a pyramid built in mid-air before it dissolves. The rest of the time we work in silence, raising scaffolding, stacking stones, so that, once in a while, the matter may surface.

The Iberia exists only when we summon it. And for a few seconds, everything else disappears. It does not last.
But when it happens, it is real.