I don’t know what faces hide. The ones I looked at ceaselessly in the crowded streets of New York, the ones I studied in the subways. The ones that rarely appear in the mountains, and blend with animal muzzles, with the features of mythological and frightening beasts. The ones of supermarkets, in the news. The one of attackers. The ones of emoticons. Of avatars. Of dreams.
I don’t know what they hide, but I do know that they are enrapturing.
Inoculati is made of faces. Large-format drawings, created with coloured pencils, oil pastels, lipsticks, charcoal, graphite, ash, impregnating agent, laid onto pressed particle board. Their marks overlap with their very movement. They repeat themselves a thousand time with insistence, obsession.
They are the result of three years of research. They captivate you into the cavity of their gazes, from their mouth a density of thoughts, notes, sketches emerge.
Roque, the young protagonist of an Argentinian novel, lives in a passionate way, given his young age. He is amazed at whoever seems to be talking by themselves. Is this person maybe discussing with a memory, or with a ghost? He does not want to be mistaken for neither of them. His impetuosity prevents him from understanding what advantages can be drawn from the nature of a memory or the texture of a ghost.
These faces with no interlocutor, only focused on themselves, have possibly only experienced the advantages. And they continue something that was previously there. Looking directly in the eyes. Ready for bewitchment.