An objective counterpart for something subjective. It is  crimped. Touched. Caressed. Dried. It cracks. A counterpart to us. We heal.

The skin of narrator reflects. It is layered. Like this text. It is wounded. Stitched. Begrimes. It is an annex to the world. Sometimes something pours out from within. In times, it taste like a last caress. Like a story that can be narrated on the surface. In a line. Skin is the story. It is layered for itself, if you cut it. One should search for all these stains. Black dots. The traces of healed wounds. The  marks on the face or body. The traces of our memories. The past days. And a space for the remaining part of the day.

There is no good feeling. Under all these layers something bigger is happening. Bigger than these sentences. These lines. These layers… Purulence. Abscess. Burnt mark. Red dots. Black dots… Maybe it is allergy. Definitely. A result of being sensitive. To being. To remaining. To thinking. To life.

I should also add that I was standing there telling myself I wished the lighting was better. Installation is part of the presentation here. Part of the narrative of the artwork. That was simple