The Book By Javier Peñafiel, a dramaturgy of drawings and words in black and white. A definitive map, structured into five precarious regions (“Cultural figures in the Spanish Baroque / Garden monologue plaza-polyphony / Victims of the diagnostics / Common dinamics and, separately, family ties among drawings / Living between lines”), pursued by an irritating excrescence in dialogue between unpresentables (“Give it time: because on time it feeds”). A book of etiquette of cohabitation with the obsessions of the Spanish artist’s dangerous leisure time. A misadventure for the reader, titillated by the self-gratification of trendy perusing and fun reading, embraced, then trapped, by an ineffable doubt, finally falling into the sacrifice of the first person singular. The last of the vademecums. Nothing less than a cosmological indecency, nothing more than a demiurgic attempt. Not exactly everything. A whole lot.