The glass of the soap-filled picture frame on the left broke in a triangular shape, and I painted that shape red to symbolize my womb, which it mirrored every time I stood in front of the sink.
Fabrics softly encase our lives, billowing behind us or soaking up our tears; comforting or reminding us of our pain. All the fabrics that compose the pillow heart and the heart pillow lived with me a for a significant time and were even part of other artworks (amulets, companions, guides) before they became this one (ultimately, the video). Men; they preach or hold space, filling blankets and robes throughout the nights and days. They spew and imbue, staining and changing the fabric around us without even noticing. Sometimes, men’s bodies tremble with the deadweight of ages of patriarchal religion, their sensitive hearts swelling, aging, hardening. Mine, too, hardens. The fibers around it yellow and fray, and so I sew. As investigation I sew; as a prayer I repeat without quite knowing to whom. The pillow below is in my grandmother’s bedroom. I do not consider it an artwork. The pixels that make up the video below, which, to me, evoke so much stench and sentience... I don't know what they are, whether they harm or heal.
Layers of feminine experience. Garlands of freedom around what we call death. The trappings of what we call beauty, delicate and abundant as cobwebs. Begging the question of home.
Donde el interior converge con el
The glass of the soap-filled frame on the left broke in a triangular shape, and I painted that shape red to symbolize my womb, which it mirrored every time I stood in front of the sink.