OBAS: A genealogy of silence.

I start with dark archive photographs of the bodies of trans people, intervening in aspects of the image that barely reveal them to give new meaning to acts of violence toward this population.

In Chiapas, Mexico, the LGBTIQ *cuir community recognizes itself in the face of the danger and threat represented by the murder and persecution of homosexuals and transvestites in the period between 1990 and 1993. This memory was eliminated from history but not from the collective body, nor of the unconscious memory related to that obscurity fostered by the State.

Only from fiction can you talk about crooked things to refer to a truth, that's why there is no reality in 'OBAS: A genealogy of silence'. It is not possible to write absolutely nothing about those years and this is what makes images accessible to pain and words, everything else remains veiled in silence. This material evokes what remains in the memory but does not want to be seen, and on the other, it is necessary to protect.

This is a work that does not tell one bit about the horror of being a transvestite and homosexual 30 years ago, to stop being an accomplice in the transvestite genocide; and this is the excuse to silence something that could be terrible if we woke up our bodies from their necessary anesthesia. The value of this series is what remains in 'the unnamable’. This allegory alludes to that invisibility in which bodies and stories become a constant, metaphorical and physical disappearance to articulate a wound, which is contained memory. This is a fiction from the slow rhythm of a writing that tells its own body, and it is not faithful to memory.

If this fact affects me so much to this day, it is because a part of me also died 30 years ago; because I survived the pain of my little self that was recognized for the first time since that difference that meant that the only thing that could be expected was death. I can't wait to go back in time to tell that child I was: you did well. We are here today to articulate this wound of a genealogy of silence, because it is necessary to follow the path, so that those who come after us can also continue to exist.

This is additionally a letter to reconcile with my self from the past for having lived with so much confusion and threat in the face of what I was experiencing, in my expression, corporeality and desire. The act of photography anchors this reality, and aspires to the magic of a liberating transformation to somehow honor 'the unnamed' by giving it light.