Dreams exist where fears reside
Un jardín propio (2021–2023) is dedicated to the strength of spirit required by people who live through situations of forced displacement: the garden as antidote. It is a tribute to the instinct for life that manifests in the dream of reclaiming one’s place in the world.
Un jardín propio (2021–2023) is dedicated to the strength of spirit required by people who live through situations of forced displacement: the garden as antidote. It is a tribute to the instinct for life that manifests in the dream of reclaiming one’s place in the world.
I think of the garden both as a reality and as a metaphor, as a teacher that imparts patience and prudent care, as the place par excellence where the mind calms and breathing becomes easier, where reciprocity with the earth and with the planet takes place.
The site of loss is not physical; it cannot be seen. One’s own garden does not have a precise location either; it emerges from the emotional construction of an image. It is the projection of a desire that stands in opposition to loss. How can its emotional weight be made visible?
The longed-for garden does not forget the wound. It is not a contemplative garden, but rather a place of action oriented toward renewal. It implies a cared-for space, beautifully cultivated, infused with warmth and clarity. It is a song to life, to the present moment, to reconstruction, recomposition, and the discovery of the inner strength of the family and social group that has been harmed. It is resistance in the face of horror and an antidote against fear, violence, the senselessness of pain, and the exhaustion caused by so much indifference toward another’s life.
Do we only see what we already know?
What exists in the night also exists in the day. The garden shelters the open sky and also the earth where, ideally, a place for dwelling rises. Despite the pain, hope is a spark that illuminates the zones of penumbra and paradox: clarity within darkness, strength within fragility and vulnerability, the lightness that rises above what is heavy...
What exists in the night also exists in the day. The garden shelters the open sky and also the earth where, ideally, a place for dwelling rises. Despite the pain, hope is a spark that illuminates the zones of penumbra and paradox: clarity within darkness, strength within fragility and vulnerability, the lightness that rises above what is heavy...
When I begin, I never want to know how it will end. I do not want the work to stem from a predictable logic; I let it transform out of itself.
