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Crying on the telephone

Post break-up open studio 2020
Lisbon, PT

July/2020 - August/2020

How many epiphanies, raptures or mutilations per five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes? No system yet to count despair by percentage gained and lost, richness in daylight stolen.

How many semi-miracles? Was it unfair how it all came down to zeros and ones? and nothing in-between? Laughter and tears and no name or utterance to call the forgotten breaths. How many times did you cheat death and postponed a truth revealed? Uncountable as in what? Love was there, spread wide across the breakfast table, you turned around to get a lighter/ some water/ and it was there no more. Could you snatch it back from the teeth of god? Did you do it without a gun to your hand? And you ran away with it under your arm, under your tongue, under oath never to lose sight of it again. Did you whimper in the shower? Did you feel the friction of it stumbling down your throat? Did you wake up a few days later and stood marvelously under the leaking sun? Someone died and you carried on. You had dinner that day as if the world was the same. Your living body kept on hosting your living mind, having coffee and eggs, saying Good morning! to strangers. How did you dare? You found yourself daring. How sweet to navigate these times we’ll soon forget about.

A show about attempting to document a year from the perspective of the surviving one. The ones and zeros that compose the tone of a general blurred memory.

   – to document a light year

Installation view