ATRAVESAR LA MEMORIA

The skin becomes an archive where every contact, wanted or not, is lodged, shaping who we are, how we move, how we touch and how we let ourselves be touched. In that record, many physical and emotional responses become visible which, although not always understood, persist. Nothing that is touched disappears entirely: it shifts, it transforms, it takes other forms, but it goes on acting. And still we insist on naming as "past" what keeps reorganising itself inside. The forms of contact change with time, are corrected, are rewritten without warning, leaving questions open.

Grief sits in that same record, not as a single episode but as an ongoing process that is examined from within. A state that does not close, that unfolds in layers, that forces us back over the marks to understand how they were formed and how they keep acting. Among those griefs, one of the deepest and hardest to delimit appears in me: the grief of the womb, understood not as an idealised origin but as a first experience of transit, of separation, of a change of state, which can be read in the intimate as much as in the social. In these processes, whatever cannot be measured or delimited, like a caress or a loss, the matter seeks a form of inscription, a way of becoming visible, of changing skin, of leaving traces, furrows, marks, folds. Then the question is no longer what is remembered, but why everything goes on acting inside, and the need to give it a material form. To put it into words. To cross memory as a transit between furrows that never stop responding.