One Hundred Undressed Ladies, their blankets, thousands of Babies(male babies).
The visitor asks. Is it obsession?
How many babies can be made in one day ?
And the material.
Is it the material that dictates the (my) thought ?
Well, they are women.
Are they communicating?
I am not a psychologist.
In an obsessive compulsory production, a fantasy (my own) dominates over reality. It is a rough one, with no glaze or refinement, it is guided by hands, it is shaped by the material, it influences moods, it traces movements.
It is fat and sad, versatile and active, in search for a something that doesn’t matter. There is masturbation and desperation, there is eroticism and aggression, there are big asses, there are twisted penises.
Ambiguity of forms and indifference to life, to each other, they are immersed in their occupation, as a purpose and ultimate holy grail.
There is silence and solitude, it is not anguish, there is grotesque, it is cathartical humour, it is a sensation of sweet and horrendous, attraction and fright. They have intentions, they have internal coherence.
As in all narrations, when observing, external reality remains excluded.