More often than not, i find myself in a willing loss. As is both my pockets and heart had a blissful leak. My works are a factual exercise on the act of loss, this is, wether by mistake or design, I end up not having something no more, afterwards depicting and celebrating the blanks left behind and yet to come. In mixed media installations, I find perfect souvenirs and shrines for gone sprouts.
Act I - Pluck & Luck
Act II - Pluck & Cluck
Act III - Pluck & Suck
Act IV - Pluck & Muck
Act V - Pluck & Guck
VIII - Pluck & Chuck
Act VII - Pluck & Yuck
Pluck Series
Strategies Against Cinema
I think movies are nice. Cinemas are ugly, so I make my best to oppose them.
Scene II - Frosty Patois
A tiny street silent 3D cinema. The Nintendo 3DS and its stereoscopic screen allows to produce and display lofi three-dimensional images without the need for glasses. Unedited, the raw footage gets reproduced randomly in synched excerpts. Now, the second lower screen of the device, the viewer has full knowledge of the amount of randomised shots available in the film, giving them agency of how many of them they desire to watch. Directly dependant to the device where it was originally created and protected with hard encryption, the film cannot be played elsewhere.
Scene I - MekaGojira, You
A short film kamikazed by its creator. Artificially lost media. After production and one screening, the film was stored in 5 SD Cards and deleted from my computer. The 5 copies were scattered around town. I do not own a copy anymore. Maybe somehow somewhere, someone will collect one of the cards and watch the film. Who knows, is not my problem. Misleading and lacking information on the SD card make 4 of the copies impossible to track down to the creators, however, one Special Edition was produced, containing BTS, script and artist statement.
turns out you can cry an universe into existence and then forget about it.
They make futures with blood. We summon them with tears. Cry with me for a tomorrow.
Arisen spontaneously by chance, luck. By love. The first born, my Aleph, such is your privilege and such is your burden. This fever dream that was your summoning. DNA is very little more than building blocks, precious liquid bricks for complex (or so they say) lifeforms. You could not be different. You needed to be a perversion, a corruption of the brick. An involuntary marriage between the archaic and the misunderstood. Simultaneously sterile and the advent of spring. Please comprehend and forgive the deprivation of your agency. I am an unfair mother.
Some scientists have studied the possibility of using blank tissue, deprived of any vestige of plant cell and override it with whatever xeno cells they please. To deplete the plant from itself, the flora needs to be exposed to bleach, sodium hypochlorite, until it is rendered translucid, ghost-like. Once empty, abandoned, it can be then raided. And so I did. Placing vessels of what once was spinach inside of latex orbs filled with PTC Media, again, pardon my ego, my DNA laid dormant. Further, with aid of constant vibration produced by being pressed with a relay, assimilation was dreamed.
Quite a remarkable tragedy, you see III, those who came with you have experienced nothing but hardships. Fallen for similar sins I spent so much lamenting in others; III, my attempt to seize the future has lend me to neglect the present. Emends, that is what I ask from you. Inside your heart-shaped plastic, very similar technologies and practises to those present withing your younger siblings are to be found. Nevertheless, in this instance, the machine is rejected. Ditched in favor of a more fair trade. For you to exist there are not circuits nor components, nothing but a simple syringe to pump oxygen into you. My energy is yours to take. Yours to keep you moving, ongoing.
Droplets waving hello to tomorrows. Tears in the goodbyes and tears for lovers. Lacrimal glands as canteens emptied on desert lands. Cracked, porous soils. Dry and ditched sterile. Fluids that evaporate above and beyond, the sky, the heavens. Gentle fluffy dreams lacking shape yet, they form storms. Violent typhoons; havoc on the city followed by gentle rains showering the flowers in April. They build futures with blood, we summon them with tears. We don’t breed. Genealogy interrupted. We don’t procreate, we don’t need to, because we can always cry. All the tears that they neglected from themselves. Shameless. We cry all the tears for the ordeals, the little apocalypses they casted and perpetuated to us without care nor understanding. We do not look away, we do not blink, not until the tears flood our eyeballs and cry. On the same vein, euphoric glitter tears that adorn the dancefloors and shape the Plastisphere; crystalline happiness, viscous, yucky and everlasting. As a personal policy, I never buy waterproof mascara, I allow and celebrate the trailing of my epidermis. Cry for tomorrows that heal the tears of the past. Cry for tomorrows that respect our now. I came to this plane crying and crying I will leave it. Indeed, I always cry at funerals and births.
No baby should dream without hearing a lullaby first, a bed time story. A soothing foreign chant they cannot rationally interpret yet they digest its tenderness. Heh, the fifth act, for you I dream protection; yours, eventually to be poured to those anear. The gift of the word is yours, even if you do not understand them - neither do I. You will find your absorbing/unforgetting body tattooed with this lullaby, is a little story somebody once told me.
What a beautiful gift. To cry online. Thanks for this wonderful opportunity, lucky charm, seven. Conceived in collaboration with my friend and colleague Cleo Veldman we found a way to wear my heart on my sleeve or, better said, keep my tears on my face. Collaboration with Cleo Veldman.
My ocean became my eighth baby and my baby into stone. A baby that does not exist nor belongs in this world, neither follows the our rules of this side of the mirror. So of course I sent it elsewhere, it was simply the right thing to do.
hey, why not read my thesis since you are already here.
In collaboration with Brazilian fashion biggest Powerhouse, I co-developed not a fashion show but an statement. A catwalk where all the models are transgender woman, one of the most marginalised groups in Latin America.