The cardboard cat in the purgatory - Marcos Palazzi
Catalan , b. 1965 -
Oil on panel , 80 x 60 cm
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A collection of this week’s Archival Stains
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Flock of small Chthon birds mesmerizingly dances in the black skies
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I don’t know how to exist in places that are held for me.
I’m so used to having to fold myself up and tuck myself into the smallest space; that when someone unfolds me, the creases are deep and torn and pulling me back in
They show me to a room. It looks big and warm, and it has my name on the door? I approach the door. It’s tall. And wide. I don’t have to fold myself to get through. Am I really allowed this? I enter and look around, allow myself the idea that maybe I could sleep in the pretty bed sitting in the corner. The thought lasts a second before panic sweeps in. What if there’s been a mistake?
I’m used to rough hands and shitty erasers. Pulling me every which way. Folding and unfolding me to meet their desired shape; the one that serves them best.
I don’t know what to do when someone tells me to rest. To be myself and leave it at that
- Maybe it’s too late now. A tattered old paper can’t revert back. These tears will always be here. I’ll always be ready to fold back down to fit.
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Giggling very professionally about this
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“Black-Hole Vehicle crossing the Ozean of Time” (1992)
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