I sometimes feel the pressure of my memories, they get loud in the distance so that I cannot get hold of them and I am forced to see them over and over again. I then start to rewrite the images in my head until it’s all clean again and I make sure I am alone when I do it, so I don’t disgrace what belonged to someone else. It’s my last indulgence to think of who was with me in that moment, and then I let go.
To let go I go through this procedure. If the memory belongs to the night time, I make sure to rewrite the story in the daytime. If I had coffee in the morning in a comfortable and warm bed, I will imagine taking it on a terrace in the evening. If it was with a stranger, I will throw in a person I know; if it was someone close to me, I’ll turn them into unexpected foreign souls.
I thought I didn’t know him, but how could I feel so comfortable around him? We were hanging in that bathtub and smiling like idiots, and we clearly wanted each other and we could read that in each other’s eyes, but no one would want to ruin that perfect moment of empathy, and not even his erection was a problem, not even the fact that I knew I was wet no matter the hot water and the soap and all the drugs we’ve been taking for the last three days.
So as we didn’t have sex that night, I decided to take photos of myself in that creamy bright light few weeks afterwards and make it as different as possible. It was anything but erotic, which serves the purpose of rewriting the memories, but there was no need for once. I kept getting in and out the water to set the camera and turn the gear and check the focus and by the time I was done with these self- portraits, I found myself aroused. Was it my body remembering? Was it a mechanical reaction to my nudity for an erotic visual purpose? I don’t know. But it’s a memory on its own now and as my art, it doesn’t belong to me only anymore.