We Are All Black (NAT Art Residence - 04/2024)

We are all black, in my case, with my light complexion, my blond hair and my eyes between blue and green, because my father, the son of a Mapuche, said that I had eyes the color of time.

Yes, I am the granddaughter of a Guanche and the granddaughter of a Mapuche and so, between those two mixtures and with this appearance supposedly so far from feeling, knowing and trying to understand what they lived, this appearance that for some is somewhere between Dutch or German came down, as well as my way of walking, of searching and of not trying to understand what was formed thousands and thousands of years ago and still beats in a vivid way today, so today I dedicate this time to myself, to stop everything that has been done, the requests for the future, to put all my history first. I know perfectly well that we were all black, not because history says so, not because of all the research, but because somehow I learned, from my Paye's stories, that in that remote Canary Islands, the life of the Guanches left its mark on the Pintaderas that identified, according to the still incomplete analysis of more modern times, the front of each house and that each of these pintaderas was not linked to a surname, it represented a clan, a belonging, a group, a common good. I know this perfectly well because my father was Mapuche, son of a Mapuche, grandson of a Mapuche, he was dark-skinned with black, curly hair like a capybara, with a slightly wide nose and thick skin. Somewhere, I no longer know if in the house in Deheza or in Álvarez, there is a photo where you can see my father in a boxing position, because my grandfather was a boxer and that is how he also earned his living. My father had the typical crowns of feathers around his head that reached almost to his knees, he was proudly Mapuche.

I know this because I imagine that in those times the comings and goings, the attacks, the migrations and the passage of time made us lose something more than our fur, leaving bare a different pigmentation, a different knowledge, a submission, an evolution in different times and that is why he believed himself superior, ignoring that sometimes the latitudes are what determine the later color.

We are the same sourdough cooked in different fires that produce different shells, scabs, needs to cover ourselves or to strip ourselves. We are one, unfailingly, invariably, whether we like it or not, whether they accept what I say or not, because I look like I’m not black, but no, I know that we are all black, that we were born from the same origin and that even though today we have differences, different appearances, I think that is also part of the game, knowing how much we can accept the other knowing and saying that WE ARE ONE but at first glance different; how much we load them with what we ignore and how much we load them with what we want to proclaim. We are one, the same, the same, unique, identical, a handful of black people scattered around the world sometimes unaware of our origin and adopting the reflection of the deceptive mirror.

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Water brings memories  (NAT Art Residence - 04/2024)

MEMORIES

Some findings require scientific specificity, others require intention.

1- Memories of unfulfilled desires

Something better, something that, to a certain extent, is mixed between this desire of mine and, perhaps, the unfulfilled one, the one that was not 100% completed because life in Villa Madero was not as beautiful as my grandmother had been promised; unfulfilled because death came early, planned yes, but early for all of us who lived it repeatedly and robbed us in the final blow of the most sacred thing we had, my Mother…

2- Memories of my mother

I looked at her from below and the perspective and my feeling gave her back to me as immense.

Images that remained impregnated in my Soul like colorful bison, horses outlined with firm manes or indecipherable signs, images that become more vivid when water moistens them. Was that the meaning of painting the ceiling of Altamira? Did my ancestors believe that they were painting the soul of that semi-dark cavity that welcomed them and that today we call a cave?

Surely they knew the meaning of up and down.

3- Memories of my cave

My soul is a cave full of images, messages, memories, aromas, smells and sensations that were captured in the dark strata where life was filled with my laughter and my tears, with my promises and my hugs, with my farewells and my new ties. We all have a cave full of images that we bring from other times.

4- Memories of lightness

I am the artist, I am the anthropologist, I am the archaeologist, the researcher and the decoder of messages that come and, although at times they paralyze me, they help me to take this great leap, that of three women sharing the same desire and the same fear, the same illusion, the same ignorance, the same detachment in a final instance of life far from any program.

5- Memories of a new beginning

In my case, at least, this final instance asks to leave behind what hurts, what weighs, what is no longer mine, what does not represent me; it asks to follow lightly this path that I knew how to build many times with others and several times alone.

I close my eyes, the absence returns in the form of an incentive, as if a new discovery in the analysis changed the given meaning. I hear it say to me “you can.” I go deeper into my cave, the darkness slowly becomes visible, there is more oxygen now, there is nothing to erase, the graffiti is showing, the dark layer becomes soft, I continue accumulating experiences, thanks to those women who moved forward with their fears, bitterness and illusions; I continue leaving my own records.

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