Fake Plastic Head: Archive
I started looking for an atelier. That search led to another door. I felt the urge to paint again. Really paint. Large scale. Like I was experimenting nine years ago, just before the pandemic. I wanted to remember what happened and slipped into my archive.
While looking for ateliers, I found the work of people I knew. Their work has evolved. They've grown. I'm not on social media anymore, it gives me distance. But I wonder: while they were continuing their path, what was I doing?
I wasn't building a career.
I was changing countries. Changing languages. Changing my name. Changing my gender. Changing my body. Deleting work. Escaping. Starting again. Trying to become someone who could simply exist.
As soon as I create something, it's time to let it go. Disappear. Rebuild. Again. And again.
How can that possibly be credible?
Maybe the real question isn't whether other people believe my existence. Maybe it's whether I can believe this is one continuous life. That the paintings, performances, websites, drawings, animations, research... All belong to the same person.
I think that's what hurts. Not that I became someone else. But that I can look back and see it has always been the same life.
So many lives in one. And one that fucking hurts. You better hold tight to any fake plastic head you'll find, and kiss it ferociously.
In the atelier, 2017.