There was a painter in my first studio space that I remember

She used to attach her own hair onto her paintings

They were stacked in the hallway

Depicting faces desperate, but hopeful

A row of death masks fusing life and death together

I mean, life and art, or is it death?

Or maybe it's just me?

At times, I have been obsessed with connecting to materials and textures

And I dreamt of having a face made of marble

A face made of marble

A face made of marble

How do you kiss, how do you kiss a piece of marble or a piece of gold?

I've always tried, I've always tried to prove that I'm the living, connecting dead parts, dead parts, dead parts

Once I tried acting

I was the virgin in the cast, like I wasn't quite human

Performing alabaster, an empty canvas

The shape around the others

In a silent pageant away from emotion

Now I rearrange objects that my friend made for my show

I'm not sure if these are art or just stuff she made for me

But I rearrange them on the countertop like I'm examining a stage plot

Working on my performance

Examining the borders, the borders

Living my text

Two dead parts (Two dead parts )

Two still-lifes (Two still-lifes)