Jeanette Art story
The scars dress us like the most intimate of the clothes, under, much under the skin.
Covering them is just a useless lie, another told to the mirror of life.
Alone in front of it, alone with those scars that do not leave the scene.
It makes no sense to keep quiet. The art is a picklock to unhinge, one by one, the cages that imprison us in ours
We will not go out whole, no, every scar holds back a part of us, the damn bond to the past;
but this chain we can stretch it until … we reach the joy.
Tearing one’s heart with one’s own hands, the most sacred part that is most dear to store love, but where sometimes
what enters is a tumor. So, to survive you just have to remove it, because that poison do not left free spaces for anything else: it take everything.
Just a sock, like a second skin: torn by time and punishment. Hands folded behind the back to show us helpless, to accept again.
What fault deserves so much? Stretch marks are not on the body but in the soul, in the capacity to love that every humiliation tears off a little more,
and does not hold back that love which we got as a gift in our birth.
A pale face adorned with flowers depict the cold fascination of death, yet in the eyes, in a hint of a smile, in the daisies that jar with their simple
purity, the hope of a rebirth flourishes shyly.
The worst violence is stealing the voice, the ability to shout “help”, like a hand that pushes on the face and throws it back into the throat
with a gesture that is a second terrible violence; a print of blood instead of a hug.
A frozen scream that suffocates us from within, unable to come out, words not said that no one will hear and a cold that
from the lips goes down to the heart.
A beautiful, clean mannequin; but without a head: it’s an object; closed in a cave and not on a flowery field. that happen to a woman in love, sometimes.
A dry body where you can also sees the soul. Stripped of all the superfluous as are the emotions, just to get a “like”: bitter currency for new prostitution.
Naked with her pride, the exposed vagina, yes: “the cunt”; offered to the eyes of those who can not see anything else, of those who do not see the only color
in an otherwise white photo: the red. Who took everything without asking permission and without saying thank you.
But if blood comes out, then a heart beats: let’s not stop it.
Pain makes us close in the body and in the soul; but this can be a cocoon from which to be reborn, with heavy wings but still wings;
with new dreams you can touch even without flying.
I love Janette, her strength and her scars. I also love her because she tells me, opens my eyes with a pin and tells me: “look”.
Is this what we want? But if we do not look, we could never do a step aside.
Don’t let her chain fall down again: let’s grasp it; I do not know who will pull the other but at least we will not fall alone.
© All images are property of the artist and can’t be reproduced without consense