**"The Weight of Suspended Time"**

I carry memory on a hanger.

An old, delicate, hand-embroidered napkin rests folded as if it still held the promise of a laid table, of an intimate gesture. But beneath its lace lies another layer, a rough crust of sandpaper dust, as if time had left its mark there, as if every friction of life had settled into it.

There is no balance between the pristine and the worn: there is coexistence. The preserved part insists on remaining bright, while the eroded part reveals that every care also carries the memory of erosion. The hanger, in its simplicity of aged wood, sustains this tension: an object of passage, made to hold what never stays.

This work is not merely an exercise in contrast, but in revelation. The sandpaper dust did not arrive to erase the embroidery, but to remind us that behind every delicacy lies the invisible roughness of time. In this encounter dwells the piece’s silence: a fold between affection and ruin, memory and friction, permanence and loss.

The Weight of Suspended Time

**"Shell of Silence"** 

  
I received the prompt: make something that fits your body. I find in myself the most intimate answer: a shell that is not marine but domestic. Not made of lime and salt, but of coconut wax, sandpaper dust, pumice stone, wood, a brass tube, rice paper, and expanded mesh.

I realize the body doesn’t need to fit physically; it is the symbolic body that projects into it. It fits in the palm, by the ear, over the chest. A portable dwelling for silence.

When I bring it close, it doesn’t return the murmur of the sea. What vibrates is the dry scrape of sandpaper, the mineral breath of stone, the translucence of wax. This silence is not absence: it is an excess of memories that refuse to be hushed.

And then there is the brass tube that pierces the shell. It doesn’t allow the refuge to remain untouched: it imposes a cut, a line of friction that violates and sustains at once. It is needle, spine, antenna. It introduces tension and vulnerability, reminding me that even the deepest intimacy can be traversed.

I don’t see an object; I see an excavation. A shell-memory, an intimate topography of the inaudible. What fits inside it is not my physical body, but my body of memories. The prompt fulfills itself in me: the body is the measure of memory, and the shell is my portable home.

Shell of Silence

**"Friction Weave"**

  
In this work, I transform the ancestral act of weaving into an exercise in friction. The sandpaper strips, abrasive matter par excellence, are interlaced with architectural precision, forming a dense, rhythmic, almost musical grid. But what might be welcoming, here, wounds. It imposes presence. It resists.

Each strip carries color, weight, texture, and tactile memory. Sandpaper immediately displaces the idea of softness associated with cloth. I don’t sew comfort; I construct friction. And by introducing brass tapes that break the opaque cadence of the weave, I add industrial glints that strain the threshold between the handmade and the mechanical, between the decorative and the structural.

The work refuses to be captured by the plane. Its slightly curved structure projects into space like a taut skin between ornament and cuirass. A surface that not only covers, but confronts. A body that does not rest.

I do not reject the textile gesture. I summon it. And in doing so, I establish a critique, or perhaps an ambiguous celebration, of the historical feminines: the loom, the quilt, the embroidery. These gestures, laden with memory and invisibility, are re-signified here with abrasive materials. What once sheltered now resists. What was delicacy becomes tension.

In this piece, interlacing ceases to be shelter and becomes scar. Between quilt and armor, between memory and friction, I build surfaces that do not seek to console, but to mark. They are impossible weaves, made to stretch the gaze and provoke the touch. Surfaces that do not hide: they engrave.

Friction Weave arises from the need to expose the rough layers that shape us, social, affective, historical. I use sandpaper as language and as indictment. Because I know there are experiences that do not inscribe themselves on smooth surfaces. They demand roughness. They demand presence. They demand permanence.

  

Friction Weave

**“What Gleams Also Bends”**

I work with brass because in it I find the paradox: a shine that signals preciousness and, at the same time, the fragility of a thin sheet, vulnerable to time and touch. It isn’t nobility that interests me, but its condition as a surface that allows itself to be marked. By stitching each module, I expose the scar as structure, the suture as language.

I interrupt the gold with fragments of sandpaper. They are open wounds in the metallic body, points of friction that institute resistance. They are not decorative stains, but inscriptions of hardness, a memory of wear. Sandpaper wounds and wears away; brass reflects and bends. In this confrontation, I find the poetics of friction: nothing is continuous, everything is tension.

The work is not smooth, not triumphant. It is unstable. It drapes down the wall like a metallic skin, flexible and fragile. Armor and ruin coexist in the same gesture. What could be ornament is also a reminder of precariousness; what could be defense reveals itself as vulnerable.

My insistence is on this beauty of the unfinished, the precarious, of that which endures only because it has been crossed by friction. What gleams is no promise of eternity, but an assertion that even the shine carries the wound within.

  

What Gleams Also Bends

“**Our Family**”

_(Peace is merely the repose between excess and lack)_

Closed, this album keeps a secret: the high relief of the twenty sandpaper sheets fits into the low relief, as if excess found its void, as if everything fell into place. There is an apparent peace in that repose, a sealed surface that suggests harmony.

But the moment it is opened, the balance breaks. On the left, the block of sandpapers advances, occupies, imposes its presence. On the right, the same block retreats, sinks, gathers into shadow. I recognize in this mirroring our family: what overflows and what is missing, made of the same abrasive matter.

The high relief stares at me like a body that invades; the low relief envelops me like an absence that holds.

In the act of opening this album, I return to a space that keeps and also exposes. Here, memory does not present itself as image, but as tactile topography, where each layer of sandpaper is a stratum of coexistence. The high relief projects itself like a façade that asserts itself to the world; the low relief like a cellar hollowed in half-light, where what does not show itself comes to rest. Between them, the gesture of opening is also the gesture of dwelling: crossing the threshold between inside and outside, between excess and lack, between the surface that wounds and the shelter that withstands.

This album does not keep photographs, but layers. Each sheet of sandpaper is a stratum of time, a bond compressed between polishing and tearing. Here, I do not represent the family; I offer it in raw matter, in the presence that wounds and in the void that harbors.

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