Swedish artist and musician Per Hüttner has been returning to work in Mexico and Brazil regularly during the last decade. He has previously presented performances with institutions like Museo Jumex, Museo de Arte Contemporaneo Queretaro, MAM and Pinoteca. The artist returned to Mexico and Brazil in winter 2025-26 to create new work for the Mexican and Brazilian audiences entitled “Limites.”

In Limites Huttner creates links between text, sound and the visual. He presents an audio-visual performance, where he uses hypnotic 3D graphics along with his music. Everything merges together to an artistic whole where sound and image interact seamlessly. The music is inspired by three short poems by the Argentinian writer Jorge Luis Borges and focus on our perception of time and the transience of life. Before each piece he reads one of the poems and briefly introduce how he see the relationship between music and poetry.

Here are the three poems by Borges (in English translation).

THE SEA

Before sleep (or terror) wove
mythologies and cosmogonies,
before time was coined into days,
the sea, the always sea, was already there.

Who is the sea? Who is that violent
and ancient being that gnaws at the pillars
of the earth and is one and many seas
and abyss and splendor and chance and wind?

Whoever looks at it sees it for the first time,
always. With the amazement that elementary things
leave, the beautiful

afternoons, the moon, the fire of a campfire.
Who is the sea, who am I? I will know on the day
beyond the agony.

 

DAKAR

Dakar lies at the crossroads of the sun, the desert, and the sea.
The sun blots out the sky, the sand lies in wait on the paths, the sea is a bitterness.
I have seen a chieftain whose blanket was more blazingly blue than the sky on fire.
The mosque near the biographer glows with the clarity of prayer.
The shadow drives back the huts, the sun climbs the walls like a thief.
Africa has in eternity its destiny, where there are feats, idols, kingdoms, arduous forests, and swords.
I have been granted a sunset and a village.

 

LIMITS

There is a line of Verlaine that I will not be able to remember.
There is a street nearby that is widowed of my footsteps,
there is a mirror that has seen me for the last time,
there is a door that I have closed until the end of the world.
Among the books of my library (I am looking at them)
there is one that I will never open now.
This summer I will be fifty years old;
Death is wearing me away, relentless.

 

Photos by: Henry Zarb