Ongoing project-
CRACKS ARE HOW THE SUN GETS IN
Leonard Cohen wrote in one of his songs:
there is a crack, a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.
At some point while I was shooting these pictures, this song came to my mind. I was shooting a woman, mostly in her personal space, who at that moment didn’t want or couldn’t find the strenght to step outside. A woman who found shelter in her books, her pads and her art, who needed to be alone in order to make sense of the world. A woman full of cracks, full of scars, like most of us are.
But that loneliness, that retirement, weren’t a surrender. It may seem otherwise, but everything she did had the goal to stay sane, to stay connected. To survive.
Sol didn’t stay home because she had given up. She did it so she could sink everything in and then keep going. All the cracks, the fissures on her, don’t stay as broken pieces. She stitches them together so they become a part of herself. She turns them into art. She writes poetry out of them so she can understand them better.
Leonard Cohen wrote in one of his songs:
there is a crack, a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.
At some point while I was shooting these pictures, this song came to my mind. I was shooting a woman, mostly in her personal space, who at that moment didn’t want or couldn’t find the strenght to step outside. A woman who found shelter in her books, her pads and her art, who needed to be alone in order to make sense of the world. A woman full of cracks, full of scars, like most of us are.
But that loneliness, that retirement, weren’t a surrender. It may seem otherwise, but everything she did had the goal to stay sane, to stay connected. To survive.
Sol didn’t stay home because she had given up. She did it so she could sink everything in and then keep going. All the cracks, the fissures on her, don’t stay as broken pieces. She stitches them together so they become a part of herself. She turns them into art. She writes poetry out of them so she can understand them better.
En sueños, veo imágenes en las que ramas abiertas y desordenadas pujan por salir de mi piel.
He sentido que mi propio cuerpo responde más al mecanismo de estas ramas, que se esparcen anárquicas y crecen puntiagudas, que a un erecto, estructurado envase humano.
He querido, a veces, que el sueño fuera real.Que las ramas nacieran por fin de mis poros y arrugas; desarticulándome, agujereándome. Haciéndome nueva, distinta. Otra.
