Fragile images, like the pain of a girl who cannot sweep away her tears, who must carry the weight of a woman’s body until it wrinkles.

She plays searching for impurities, for crevices that harmoniously move through a woman’s slender body. And from there this girl plays, despairs, loses her mind and begins to play again. And while the body grows and perverts the girl, everything just bleeds.

And the look is curious, perceptive. Then it is just there where she intrudes herself.

She looks into the most painful scars of everybody; the imperfect. The traces left by this growth branch continually between girl and woman.

This restless camera searches from the most primitive. The filth of the woman uncovered, the wild. With nothing that conceals her bashfulness and turns her into a stone; with the hope of withholding a fleeting moment in which neither the wind, nor the mud, nor the mist can damage the beauty the woman has. And we feel it will only last a breathe.

So with the help of mirrors, in the intimate shelter of her bedroom, she dares and messes up her hair. Brittle mirrors with sharp ends razor her hair, even the most immaculate skin of all.

Now the woman flows. She is infinite, boundless. Even with her crevices, her spine has the firmness of a warrior but the fragility to live with the knowing that nobody returns to innocence.

María José Moiron