Lolita is already a noun and it is in the dictionary. It says, “Precociously seductive young girl”. The story of that rebellious and daring child is now history.
The hanger is too large for such a small dress. She doesn’t need a bra, not yet. Lollypop and sexy look. Does she want to grow up? Or is it us? Maybe it’s because it sells, appeals, teases… maybe that.
And we obey. Accepted violence, facilitated?, by the others. Like if hurried to have her grow up. Like if cute or funny. It’s not her, it’s us, the others.
Line sanding
Used sandpaper is like clouds or stains on the wall. I see shapes and colors. Like small works of art. With a plus, though. They carry with them part of what they sanded down, they tell a story. Like us. We scratch, we rub, we pet… and everything leaves a mark. I tried to connect lines on that sandpaper that never worked together, and all the same something links them, relates them. Maybe it’s the life line of the sandpaper.
Phases & Faces
31 self-portraits, one a day starting with a new moon and completing the whole cycle.
We have a different face every day. Is it the moon? Like the moon? She rules our humors. Liquid and the others too.
I followed the moon closely for 31 days.
A challenge. A ritual. Devoting daily time for this project I felt unpredictable. Very. Though I know I am one, when portraying myself day after day I saw myself of a thousand colors and flavors. Sometimes it was like a rollercoaster, others like a quiet river…
Phases & Faces
31 self-portraits, one a day starting with a new moon and completing the whole cycle.
We have a different face every day. Is it the moon? Like the moon? She rules our humors. Liquid and the others too.
I followed the moon closely for 31 days.
A challenge. A ritual. Devoting daily time for this project I felt unpredictable. Very. Though I know I am one, when portraying myself day after day I saw myself of a thousand colors and flavors. Sometimes it was like a rollercoaster, others like a quiet river…
Panis Vita
From wheat to my body.
When kneading bread I connect to something primitive. The processes of baking bread and those that happen within my own body are related. Both bread and my body cannot ignore time. Are there similarities? I’d rather say metaphors.
Bread has its own poetics. Seed, grain, developing, fermentation, maturity, baking, and then giving it, sharing it, it is offered, it is eaten… it is also digested and then eliminated. It also ages indeed and there is no more… there will be no more… Like with my life.
