Portugal, 1954


There’s a mist in our eyes when we look back.

These drawn images herald an end of representation and a beginning of oblivion. Memory and forgetting.

Representing is figuring out the impossible and forgetting, a small death. I don’t know if these cloudy drawings, filled

with water, help us to see the tree, the night or the rooms we remember.

It could be a police series that referred to an unknown. Who, of these figures/ characters, almost ghosts, will finally be

shrouded in the shadows of a broken movie? All indeed. Even those with their backs turned to look at almost

nothing (the end of the performance or the beginning of an eternal oblivion).

Drawing hurts. The body is tense and the hand does not touch the paper, only the fingers move the chiaroscuro

movement. What will be the decision (when we ride a bike): look back or go ahead blindly?

Carlos N Correa