six stories from instagram

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On today’s #selfie episode “Mariana suspects she has a witch on her hands when the cheerleading squad falls victim to sudden blindness and spontaneous combustion” .
#breakfast #scifi #usagirl

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Mister Man is waiting downstairs, she’s gonna take me for a #ride in the #desert, at night 🌌⚡️

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I’m wearing #lipstick and #lesbian

#selfieswag

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We are such an #exotic bed
🌅
#tropical #threesome #twolatinasoneparrot

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I make posters of my girlfriend and hang them around the house
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#dissidentromanticlove 🌴💕

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🔴🍈⭕️
#selfie
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my blog my blog my blog

I used to write a lot on this blog, in fact I’ve had marianissimaairlines for more than 10 years now. In the beginning I would pour out everything that was happening in my life since I’d left home. I remember a friend saying “you have a very interesting life, you should have a blog”. I think I’ve always been very personal on my blog-writing style, specially during a certain phase of my life. For a few years my posts were full of confessions about love and sex, filled with pictures from orgies and parties and after-parties and after all the parties when the excitement was coming down, really down, and I would write about those feeling of confusion and loneliness and my friends back home would be worried and my mom would tell me “I stopped reading your blog because it’s too hard for me, I don’t understand it”, I guess the s&m was a bit too much for her, seeing her daughter being spanked and full of bruises. I was happy, though, in a conflicted way, experimenting and pushing myself into find where the limits were. Then one day I got tired of everything, because that’s how I do it, like listening to the same track over and over again during a whole day until I can’t stand it, to the point of anger. I wish I could handle better some of my own personal features. “Think about those sayings about having the power to control your own mind”, but it’s not easy at all and some behaviours seem to live in the house of the irrational, beyond understanding and proper management. So I decided I was done with the blog. I know a lot of people was reading me at the time, some curious people from the town I grew up who wouldn’t talk to me when they’d see me in person; some curious people from the city I was living in who admired my brilliant friends and probably me as we were so outspoken and active in our crowd (community just sounds too organized and established). People would call me Marianissima instead of Mariana, they would come up to me asking if I was her. I deleted everything. I was quite sure I had saved some texts but I could never found them, lost in some old hard drive, lost in a CD, burned of old digital age. My new blog was white, the other one was black. My texts were shorter and shorter. For a while I did a lot of collages with self-portraits included. I’d spend much of my time inside my room, my new room which I had for 2 years or so before changing countries again. It was big and modernist from 1860 with a lot of light and a balcony, not like the previous basement in an artist studio with a stupid macho Argentinian painter and a crazy woman who was obsessed with me and would get into my bed in the middle of the night and then kicked me out because I was rude to her annoying son. It wasn’t like that other interior room with a window to the lift and a landlady who forced me to clean the oven I never used the day on I left on my knees in front of her while her boyfriend who cried silently at the door because he kind of liked me. One day I had such a horrible come down of speed I feared I would jump out of the balcony which led to a pool of rubbish and hard concrete, it was a terrible place that house. Inside my new big room I’d take pictures of myself with the timer and then put my body in all sorts of landscapes with added elements, very camp and fun and melancholic. There’s always some sadness in the work but if I think about it, in all the works, there’s always some loneliness in trying to figure out the personal, even when it’s made public. And then what happen? The new city had totally different rules, the time was brutally different and so was the sky and the air, so heavy. I guess I was so turned up inside I didn’t manage to reach the keyboard, I lost the words for a while. Then got them back again, but the time and the sky and the air were still the same, different. So I don’t know, between there and here and my new airs I sort of lost touch with it. This year I made a facebook again, tried one back in 2008 and didn’t like it so deleted it. Last month I got an instagram, really like it. I also have a tumblr for photos and videos where nothing happens and another for references but only the ones I can reblog from other accounts, never the content I find myself. Because otherwise what does stay private? I do have that fear of exposure, not as strong as to not use the internet, not as strong as to create an account with a different name and never tell anyone, but still present. I wonder where to put what and when and how to manage it. What is each account for? But this blog, oh this blog inspires me such tenderness! It has seen so much, felt so much. It feels cosy and I’m pretty sure by now I lost all the readers I ever had and that feels so calming, like when you can come back home again because the after party at your house is over and they all left because it’s already sunday night but good for you you’re not having a come down from speed, you’re alright and it’s all magically clean, no cups no bottles no smoke, just a few details here and there, like little memories. It’s not false modesty, I lack of that, I really have practically no readers now, I only know of a friend (hi klau) who was following me, now you can follow me and see when I put things, but when I started and had readers that wasn’t an option so maybe by now they all forgot. In light of that empty cosy house I came back tonight which in fact a sunday night and because I’m going through some insecurities I thought, and my girlfriend said, write about it, “be secure about your insecurities”. I’m not talking about those specific troubles now, they are work related and I obsess over them, another behaviour from the house of the irrational. I press new post and I write, I’m fucking spitting it out free from anyone looking at me, free from a paper from school, training this bravery of exposure to be thicker. I’m not correcting it, not going back and forward, I don’t want to care about my imperfect English right now, lack of articulation and not so wide range of words, fuck it. I’m not even pausing to think, just did it now a little because I don’t know how to finish this. Well who cares.

Hurgar

According to wordreference “hurgar” is rummage, delve, meddle; words I haven’t used before in English. When studying the language of a concept, say the formless, an extension of vocabulary must be done, not just in number (of new words), but the actual extension of the word itself. Stretch a word to see how much can it mean.

Hurgar.

Lurking, poking, intruding.

Lingering, waiting.

Appearing violently, smoothly.

Creepy.

Sliding, swimming, winding.
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I miss comics

I miss la cupula and fantagraphics and freaks… I got some nice graphic novels the other day, from the local library, but they have mostly Marvel stuff. At Goldsmiths they simply don’t have comics (!) There’s a new tiny shop in the corner, but the variety is minuscule and not completely my style. Too many cute animals and men.

I miss some dark, daily, feminist, troubled, lazy, clever stories with graphics that take me to the time when I hanged out a lot. I like to just hang out, like that girl I saw yesterday at the skate park, drinking a beer and writing in a table full of backpacks while her friends were doing upside down tricks.

If I was in Barcelona I’d go here tomorrow:

Wonderful illustration by Ana Galvañ

Thoughts on inbetweeness – space, reality and fiction

On one hand I had a big headache that didn’t allow me to participate in the discussion at the end of the talk. On the other hand, it just didn’t seem very enlightening for me, perhaps because I am quite familiar with the field of production design. In any case, what I was expecting from the event alovestorysomewherearound2046: decor construct was a deeper conversation about the intersection between production design and contemporary -interdisciplinary- art: the importance and influence that space has on actors, performers and audiences, its power and relevance as a character itself. That is something that fascinates me and this specific relation between these two fields is so obvious yet not very much discussed in general.

It’s really exciting to see how contemporary art, on a bigger scale, is still missing a few connections, like two people that have things in common but are not sure they can be friends. Personally it’s exciting because those are the themes that I’m genuinely interested and there’s still a lot to explore (at least for me).

So I left the talk with some clever notes on my notebook, ideas that came up during the talk, mainly when everyone participated, specially this man that commented on what exactly were we doing there as an audience for a conversation that seemed it could be happening in private, where artist and curator on pre-production tell their scripted scenes to a production design who explains what his job is about. It sounds confusing (also because of this long last sentence), but that is also part of the whole situation. Which takes me to this point where I start to think if being in the middle of fiction and reality is in itself the key to my research or is it an endless cycle; am I going somewhere or just back and forward from one world to the other?

So, continuing on the idea of the inbetweeness, I though of two other great examples that I quickly point out:

First example: the 2 worlds that co-exist and are co-dependent: the production of that world and the world itself

Second example: a documentary that is fiction, a fiction that is reality. That is no documentary that is entirely real or a fiction completely unreal, as sci-fi as it might be.

Two excellent cases to illustrate this are these scenes:

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Pedro Costa_Ossos

Ossos from Pedro Costa and En construcción from José Luis Guerín

2 scenes in a bedroom, we don’t really know if they’re staged or not, one is supposed to be a fiction film and the other a documentary, but they’re not quite one or the other.