My house is full of little things. An infinity of unnecessary items accumulated over the years, that stay there, without a reason and without a purpose. Sometimes I not even remember where they come from, where I bought them, or who has donated them to me. But now they have achieved a small space, a place above a cabinet, inside a drawer, on a library shelf, or hidden at the bottom of a closet, and they defend that place fiercely, stubbornly. They don’t want to leave, claiming their right to survive, pretending that I feel an affection for them, a bond that simply doesn’t exist. I avenge with these portraits, which reveal their uselessness, their fragility, and the ability that I could, if I really would, to get rid of them all, forever. I want to show their true face, which is inconsistent. They are an empty and weak shell, so that their own shadow is heavier than themselves.
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