I have not seen freedom in the shape of a dove, nor a swallow landing on a window. I have not seen freedom in blue. I have not even seen it in the ghostly voices proclaiming profaned justice.
The world is beastly, roguish, wicked — little garden angels. I have not seen freedom on the hot asphalt, suffocated by rubber, by shoes worn out from fatigue, by baby strollers, by urine, by saliva, by tears.
I dream of it, I long for it. It brushes my copper hair aside and then, with its magic, it cuts my skin, opens my skull, my brain, my soul. It enters me as if I were something to cover itself with, as if my body were its cocoon, and it soaks itself in me, feeds on my births, my deaths, my orgasms, on the reflection of my love — that is, on you. Freedom is a butterfly that does not know how to fly.
Photography by Mariajosé Rito Michelena
I was born in Guadalajara, but I’ve lived in the country’s three largest cities. I’ve devoted almost my entire life to art, and in my work I reclaim childhood through creativity.