Those things that prick my chest

Catalina Torres


Montevideo, Uruguay; Argentina

After five years of living alone in Buenos Aires, I returned to my parent's house, in Montevideo, Uruguay.

Things have changed. I have some grey hair. And wrinkles. And the jeans I used in my adolescence do not fit me anymore. Also, after years of hiding, covering, and disguising emotions, they now know I'm gay. Re-inhabiting this space is a suction in time, a deep cut, a constant evocation. My home does no longer exists. It is on the other side of the Río de la Plata, enclosed by borders that are now rigid due to a pandemic that no one expected.

Other things remain the same in this house. Like the smell of mothballs. And washed cushions. Or old leather. I lie on the bed. The sheets are white. Gentle. Artificial. I am at my parents' house. I'm coming back. I see objects that I have never seen. That I did not know they had a place in this house. I remember others.

Those things that prick my chest.

They take me to the movie of my childhood. Everything is strangely charged with affection. Now I can hug my mom in the middle of the stairs. I can watch my dad play with the dogs.

This is a photographic observational project, an observation of an aging territory in the middle of a harsh world context. It is a reflection of my own history, my memories, the pillars that built my childhood, and that are now here. In front of me. Glaring at me. Through objects, walls, and corners.

'...Emotions, in other words, involve bodily processes of affecting and being affected, to use my own terms, emotions are a matter of how we come into contact with objects and others...', Sara Ahmed.

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