Desaparecidos Nikkei Reappeared in the Argentinian conscience. The night of April 21, 1977, fourteen armed men wearing civilian clothes went to my dad's office and took him and another lawyer. They put him in the back of a Ford Falcon (the chosen cars the military/cops would use) and they sped off. That evening my mom, little brother and me were in our apartment on the eighth floor on Acoyte avenue. Something was boiling on the stove, the table was set but I don't remember having dinner that night. There was something going on, my mother was nervous and she was not saying much, which was strange since she liked talking to me a lot. I was sitting on the couch wrapped on a blanket watching television. I just knew even though my mother didn't say a word that we were waiting for my dad. She kept looking at the clock and I kept staring at the white door hoping to hear the key turn. We heard the elevator stop and the squeaky noise of its metal door opening, we
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After a long period of "fermentation" I finally realized what kind of art project I needed to create. I spent hours waiting for the perfect drop to appear on the macro pictures dedicated to water. I took it as my meditation time. I have been painting faces for more than twenty years, especially the eyes of strangers. It always seems like I was avoiding the subject that it was right under my nose for so long, maybe because it wasn't the right time to face it head-on. Like a macro lens if you are too close you can't see the whole figure in front of you. I am guessing this long road of painting unknown faces was an unconscious getaway to avoid remembering, an attempt for me to push everything inside. I was still able to see a glimmer of what really matters to me. I was carrying all that emotional baggage since the day my father was taken. The weight is/was always there like a huge rucksack on my back. Each day something or someone reminded me who and what was m
13 de Noviembre, 2015. Después de un periodo de fermentación muy largo llegué a la conclusión de que proyecto tendría que elaborar. Dediqué horas esperando que la gota perfecta apareciera en las macro-fotografías dedicadas al agua. Lo tomaba como mi hora de meditación. Más de veinte años dibujando, pintando caras y sobretodo ojos de desconocidos. Siempre evitando el tema que lo tuve adelante de la nariz por tanto tiempo, pero que no era la hora de enfrentar. O como un objetivo macro demasiado cerca como para poder recrear la figura completa. Supongo que este camino de pintar rostros de desconocidos fue un escape inconsciente para no recordar, para tratar de empujar todo adentro y dejar salir solo pequeños destellos de lo que me importaba. Una especie de mochila emocional que llevo en mi espalda desde que mi padre no está, el peso se siente/sintió continuamente, cada día algo o alguien me recordaba que es lo que faltaba porque nunca tuvimos un cierre definitivo en