Since I started expressing myself with photography, I tend to forget to write. My life was always filled with journals, books and drawings when I was much younger - tendencies obviously inherited by my mother with whom I lived, a writer who kept paper, pens, pencils and plants in every room of every one of the multitude of apartments and houses we lived in when I was a child.
The solitude we were subjected to during the pandemic, for me, was like the experience of a caterpillar ending it’s previous life in a cocoon: there is a clear “before” and “after”.
Welcome to my After life.
My visual expression has usually taken form inside a sort of container, akin to a window or frame of sorts. The meeting of horizontal and vertical lines has a nonsensical need to belong in my work. The making of books is a very natural and organic evolution for me - slowly, with each visual element taking it’s place on the page, I am writing. Words are not necessarily relevant, and the story is told abstractly, page by page, with visual references and their connection to the readers’ imagination and memories.
These are my new photographs and paintings, diarized in the form of an art journal, contained in a messy little package and filled with the thoughts that come with re-birth in a new form.