e answered her: “I don’t need to do that, to manipulate the physical, to demonstrate my power in the material. Because I work from behind the dream, creating beforehand, no fuss. Why forcing things and breaking accepted laws, making myself evident, when going back in time and planting a new seed suffices.”
he couldn’t believe what was happening. She wasn’t just one, but twenty personalities blatantly interrupting each other. And it didn’t just happen to her.
Stranded in that town in ruins, Pêch didn’t imagine that while the ugly and surly butcher who she was speaking to was preparing her order, a voluptuous teenager felt in his body the vibrations of the meat crushing in the grinder.
I made this work—as always—in Illustrator, drawing the vectors freehand over a photograph I took myself.
The Floralis Genérica is a metal sculpture placed in the United Nations Square on Avenida Figueroa Alcorta in Buenos Aires. It was made of stainless steel with an aluminum and concrete skeleton. Supposedly, the petals should open and close automatically on a certain time of the day, but the electrical system that accomplishes this marvel is broken, and no one wants to put the money needed to repair it.
here’s something else, those who watch me from their dreams. Atfar was one of them. From the beginning, he watched me while sleeping taking bodies as vehicles, other people. The best of it is you were one of them, and I noticed, like I noticed before. Because I see the face of the dreamer in the other’s face.
t is unbelievable, I know. Though I believe it. That makes me different. Not from all but from most. Not from you certainly. You, who see me through the wall.
Life is mostly slow and boring. Maybe not ours–meaning our life together.
he hardly moved its tiny leg. She had made herself comfortable inside my hair to be in accordance (or warmer). But it didn’t bother me, moreover, I liked it a little for I had forgotten she was a cockroach and I had more remembered she came from me, from my hair, from my will of creating her. She came from my life because she was in it, and she was a part of me because of that. It was me the cockroach… IT WAS ME THE COCKROACH.
I wake up all sweaty. (It was me the cockroach.) At the bathroom mirror I am not able to distinguish her, so blended with my other hairs. Underneath my pillow there is one of my hairs but that isn’t a forceful proof. (It was me the cockroach.) I make myself a coffee and still feel the dream all over my body. (It was me the cockroach.)