The spirit of the image
and the iconoclasm of the Ghost
The wind was my obsession, and so were all the other invisible things that allowed my presence to reach the sensation of living.
When I met the spirit of self-portraiture, I only remember the saliva and the fine hairs on my body, the rest was a dark fear of the other.
I learned to photograph in the most human way possible — hating the world and everything that belonged to it.
The infinite photographs served as an attempt to repeat the form until it could finally become something else, an attempt at freedom, a spell that began and ended with the clouds. Like when I repeat the word body until the bones break.
In each portrait, there's a scar from something I thought was beautiful for so long until it hurt me enough to become an image — the form burns and it's impossible to seek life in the craft of portraiture without entering an eternal trance of retinal dilation, destroying the sensation of knowing and obsessively starting to invent.
I name all the images I've taken as wounds for having made them with a blade in my hands, opening an incision in the skin of reality so I could extract them, as if in each one there was fragmentation, fleeing from perfidious language, turning me into a ghost, who even with desires and a human carcass, was forced to transfigure without losing the possibility of existing.
What I see when I open the file is an oracle of a time and knowledge that exists between what I've lived
and what I don't know, it's the sacred attempt to step on something that's still mud until it becomes a body and consequently defies loneliness, for this is the relic of transfiguration and that's why I'm devoted to it. The eternal sensation of devouring everything that's incessantly centrifuged and shot towards my senses, turning me into a state of grace, a bifurcated tongue feeding on the other, because I'm also the other when I accepted decomposition as what I am. The image is the accumulation of all the lies we tell ourselves and yet it's impossible to lie in the face of what we feel for it.
and what I don't know, it's the sacred attempt to step on something that's still mud until it becomes a body and consequently defies loneliness, for this is the relic of transfiguration and that's why I'm devoted to it. The eternal sensation of devouring everything that's incessantly centrifuged and shot towards my senses, turning me into a state of grace, a bifurcated tongue feeding on the other, because I'm also the other when I accepted decomposition as what I am. The image is the accumulation of all the lies we tell ourselves and yet it's impossible to lie in the face of what we feel for it.
A lie that's also a fantasy, the same one that makes the shine of the sun on water my golden and deformed face, through attempts to see things that don't need to make sense.
In front of the camera, there's a residue of memory and all the flowers of eternity and the plague, they are the androgynous bodies that still dance. Their faces are not seen, not because of their lack, but because of the multiplicity they condense, which is impossible to see with the naked eye. When I say ghost, when I say photography, I'm talking about death and life in an equidistant stroke, a convulsion of all the things I couldn't see for a long time and today have become my work and my life, because everything never ceases to exist and opacity means crossing any territory with the possibility of creating relationships without needing to crawl.
Creating images allowed me an affection and empathy for everything that's not human and thus not fearing the end of the world — but desiring it like a fall from the sky. The gill of the fish in me is not an attempt to lengthen my tears but the search for the origin of life.
My hands become wet zones when I start painting myself in front of the mirror — and looking at it, while daring to rediscover my femininity through these new hands, is to see that through reflection we realize that the image is not a separate entity or mere speculation. The image considers everything — from the anthropocene incendiary to the fossil of the discovery of the world, like dreams wrapped in a planetary condition.
Disobedience reminds me that the world is being destroyed all the time, but the creations and the reds that come out of me promise me the possibility of hearing people and what they feel - making it undeniable that the response of the sign is above all in feeling.
