ABALO the second
Skin covers up deep disclosures. And, when it reveals itself… It is a tremor almost impossible to look at… Eyes and mouth are swallowed, while the being (at his immense elasticity) bends towards himself, facing his empty body… completely stripped. The world exists and stops existing. It is everything. It is nothing. It is a vastness… a shout. Laughter arises, the cry and perhaps (luckily), death. My memories are a heavy cross to bear. I carry them painfully, one moment craving, the next fearing amnesia. Memories… Everything reveals through them and, none the less, all the fiction sprouts from that mnemonic place. What is real ? What is fiction ? Who am I ? Which process is required for the skin to undress and come out? For the body to dance naked until it dies from orgasm ? In this exhibition, the several intermittences of the skin and its processes are unraveled. The nonsense is collected and composed in one installation, where collectively acquires meanings, from nothing to everything, or at least into something. An epileptic machine, a schizophrenic show of wide eyes. This installation is an allegory of my own atelier. It was inspired by the chambers of the heteronyms who inhabited that place. It is a display of this intimate place, dark and primordial, where light unravels, leaving doors wide open. Here we observe some glimpses of faces. They are the faces of each woman that dwell in me. In that moment captured by polaroid, they come out: Alice, Mar, Odette, Emily, Matilde, Louise, Helena, Magda, o Demónio-Pássaro (the Demon-Bird) and, lastly, Constança, recently deceased. At the end of the road… void. It is no longer a mimesis of my atelier.
I am shaked up by memories and a strange sense of recognition: on a white bed, lies a sculpture. A trachea or a spine?
Perhaps it is what remains from a body that left running, euphoric… By the bed we discover a red toy car, a memory of Alice. At the bedside a moment of Demónio-Pássaro’s body, autopsied. It is a living dead.
Voices speak. Scream. I must go out to listen to them. It is them. They are mine. Perhaps they are not… Maybe they only are. It is a body at seven screams and shouts of a bird… those who scream because they don’t know
how to sing… the Jurassic ones that swallow a Man entirely.
We hear… we listen…
The voices are increasingly stronger and more intense. Demónio-Pássaro cannot go out… No entry! I fear what might happen after his departure…
“Blind eyes, blind eyes, anus is about to calve!” [said Constança, dissertation p.99]
Memories, fiction, desire… it is the process of skin.
a process of intermittences,
a process of love,
a process of dying…
…over and over again…