top of page

On the icy silver table in front of me you find yourself. I refuse to read the documents by you... I know it is my duty to examine you. The necropsy kit waits impatiently. But your body, which once seemed to me a storm of sensations, now lies motionless, stripped of life. An enormous force emerges from the unusual garden that they implanted over you and absorbs me; It prevents me from stopping seeing (you). Incapable of thinking about anything other than your body transformed into an hypnotizing work of art.
Your eyes penetrate my being, although here and now they are incapable of communicating. I always feared that I would not be able to hear the voice of your gaze, now it is too late. In a few hours these will begin to dry out. They will become cloudy. The fear that your living eyes would not speak to me became the permanent memory of your mute cadaverous eyes.
I lost track of time and may have risked evidence because of it, but I had made a decision. I began to work, sure that the alphabet of your pupils and the exquisite vocabulary hidden in your gaze would return home with me. I would never feel fear again, because as long as they are with me, your eyes will always speak to me.

2.jpg

"Temor a que tus ojos no me hablen"

2015

Printed on seasoned linen

46" x 44"

bottom of page