Cogí una cámara de fotografía antigua del escritorio de Olivier -Nettar, made in Germany-, realicé un retrato de Jerome y una serie de 12 fotografías al azar entre el patio y el living de la casa, de manera intuitiva.
Más tarde, Jerome me escribe:
Para eso que me peguntaste, pues no sé, cuando te solté que la imagen de mi madre comiendo era muy política, me refería en primer lugar a los nervios. La rabieta contra los ruidos, contra esa boca en punto como un pavo, contra la sopa aspirada, todo eso insoportable y mi forma repelente de dejar traspasar la irritación (me corrían bolitas por todo el cuerpo). Me refería quizás a alguna aspiración de clase mía, al desprecio que sentía para degluciones suyas, socialmente marcadas y que no podían cuadrar con ella. A la negociación silenciosa que provocaba un gesto brusco de cabreo, un prurito repentino y las miradas que intercambiamos como un cruce de poder. A la contención pactada a menudo y a las discusiones que generaban la convivencia con hipo. Todo un sistema de consenso tenso aprendido para aguantar la coexistencia. No se trataba de saber quien controla el mando a distancia, pero sí de una relación politica invadida por consideraciones quizás afectivas (y no el contrario).
Ahora cuando miro esta imagen, lo afectivo acabó imponiéndose, posiblemente porque ya no hay convivencia ni casa común. De lejos, me parecen todas esas irritaciones que me rascaban las venas muy ridículas. De lejos, siempre parecen ridículas. Quizás, me hace reaccionar más ahora mi propia actitud que las maniobras y demostraciones deglutorias de mi madre. Pero bueno, la imagen de mi madre comiendo sigue siendo muy vinculada con esa forma de concertación muda y tensa. De allí surgió el comentario....
POTRAIT TO JEROME / I was asked for a work from a hybrid house; that is between a domestic house and a space for public debate and residence for artists, where Jerome and Olivier live and whom are responsibles for contacting the guests and organize it all.
In one of my visits I asked Jerome, if a portrait of her mom eating is a political image for him or not and his first impulse was just to say yes without a doubt. From Oliver’s desk, I took an antigue camera-Nettar, made in Germany, took a portrait of Jerome and a serie of 12 random photos from the courtyard and the living room of the house, intuitively.
Later on Jerome wrote to me;
For the thing you asked me, well I don’t know, when I told you the image of my mother eating was very political,first of all I was refering to the nerves. The irascibility against the noises, against her mouth almost like a turkey , against the soup she sucked, all that unbearable and my repellent way of letting pass the irritation ( ball ran me all over my body). I meant maybe some aspiration of myclass, to the contempt she felt for her swallows, socially marked and could not reconcile with her. A quiet negotiate that caused a sudden movement of anger, a sudden itching and exchanging glances as a crossing of power. A containment oftenly agreed and the discussions that generate the living together hiccups. All in a tense consensus system that learned to endure the coexistence. It was not known who controls the remote from a distance,but yes a political relationship invaded by considerations might affect ( and not the opposite ). Now when I look at this image, the affect overcomes possibly because now there is no living together not even a house in common. From a distance all those irritations that scratch my veins are so ridiculous. From a distance they always seem ridiculous. Perhaps now my own attitude makes me react more that maneuvers and demonstrations of swallows of my mum. Well anyway, the image of my mother eating is still very linked to this form of mute and intense dialogue. From there came up the comment…
