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Characters who can't always be trusted. Because they often don't see the difference between sound and noise, between countryside and abandoned building, between fiction and reality.
I explore sound, speak languages and talk to strangers. This is my work.
AIR Member. www.cristinamarras.com
The door is heavy. Dark burgundy on the outside, cream on the inside. Thick clots of paints, run forever along the edge, frozen in time.
I am a small child, probably five or six, and I am staring at the front door from the outside. But I am not locked outside, no, I had a happy childhood, nothing like that ever happened, I am just outside. Waiting.
Waiting for the coffee to completely emerge out of the Mokka machine that burns on the stove, because my mum fears that the octagonal brass valve at the side of the Italian moka machine, she fears that it might explode, and so, to keep me safe, to preserve my immaculate childhood, here am I, staring at the front door, passing time.
I study the tears of paint, I run my finger inside the cracks of the ancient wood, singing by myself, thinking, dreaming.
And here am I, now, today, bringing to mind details and particulars that once inhabited my thoughts, larger than life, the dreams of my childhood when I could never fall asleep and now, those forgotten dreams and thoughts come to my mind, and perhaps they never even existed, just as perhaps that front door, that mokka espresso machine and that happy childhood never existed.