The house I share with my husband and our daughters stands dismantled in the room. Its façade has been reassembled like billboards, its fences broken and scattered across the exhibition – boundaries that have been dissolved, an ambivalence that cuts both ways: liberation or punishment, depending on which side one stands. Through the windows, a film transports viewers inside, from where they watch me cleaning the panes – the invisible labor that keeps the surface clear. The cleaner the glass, the less one sees the hands that cleaned it.
In an era in which everyone films, shares, and documents, the line between "mine" and "ours" – between the private and the public – is no longer a fixed line, but a continuous negotiation.
on Displays, Palletes.
on Displays, Palletes
