Revisited making landscapes out of the remnants of past paintings.
I laid in bed last and while in that stage of half asleep, half awake, a quiet voice said “I should think in Spanish”. The realization that at one point in my life I consciously or subconsciously made the switch of thinking from Spanish to English made me wide awake. I sat up. I tried to think solely in Spanish for maybe a minute but it felt so bizarre.
Making the switch was like being introduced to a past life. I am left thinking of the things I must of left behind in doing so. Of the associations that perhaps a younger me thought Spanish carried.
Of a second grader trying to mimic the way the people on TV said their O’s.
Of the partner who once said “I don’t hear any Mexican in you”.
Ironically, thinking in Spanish has now become a metaphorical crossing of borders. One that forces me to think and see all the things an immigrant has seen. That I’ve seen.
This is what this body of work is about. Coming to a repository of memories, debris, paintings. An intersection before a crossing.
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