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There is something dense, united, sat at the bottom,

Repeating its number, its identical signal.

It does notice that the stones have touched the time,

In its fine matter there is smell of age

And the water that brings the sea, salt and sleep.

Pablo Neruda

I often hear myself resonate in the objects that are around me, I see my footprints in them, my most intimate reflection. How can an object have encapsulated my memories? How can I dwell in me and I in it?

Memories that scream and expand resonating inside of me. Objects that I have proposed to scratch, to unravel, to undo, to unfold to reach its deepest and vivid entrails. In its most organic part, I find that echo of my memories, of myself.


Corners and corners of my house with countless memories huddled in lint and dust, in the hair of my loved ones. Memories impregnated with sensations, colors, feelings that run through my history, my body, my essence.


Unravel them to make a journey throughout memories and sensations that they hold. Ritual of recognition and integration. My house, my family, my memories - subtle but scandalous - return and give meaning. They bring me back to the important moments, smoking out my essence.


They seek to evoke the sensations that my memories produce, to expand and resonate in the memories of others.

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