...still kind of dreaming, looked the window to see a bright new day, the view of the bay, the island and all the buildings around the old town; while returning my eyes back to my room, I find myself in a scene in which the beauty was even greater of a sleeping woman, finished, after trying to convince me of her sensuality and intelligence, her own ability in her own in giving me pleasure… And then, what was left, the body abandoned in itself, bearing the burden of prosaic humanity, with no grace or vanity… a landscape… though endowed with an intimacy clearer than the bay, the island or the houses. I remembered then of all the women I saw in this same condition since my childhood: mom, aunt, sister, friends, lovers, models; carrying the marks of their early fights in the disillusion of their bodies, becoming day after day more and more flaccid. The music of time.
These figures/landscapes live in my imagination (and I imagine in the minds of others), throughout the years, and so it remain because, although obvious, it is there where are revealed the “great terrors related to the lowness of existence”. It is right there where we find out the oddity of nudity and the fragility of flesh that encloses those bodies in their fatigue.