Still
On my way home in the train, the first time that I went to Lisbon simply for a couple of hours strolling around books and came back immediately after, I stumbled across this bed, this pile of chairs and this utopic ecosystem: there were ridiculous tears threatening gravity as I recognized the symbols of my own attempts to voice artistic approaches to life as a very young adult. I wondered then if there might be a specific female mental imagetic, but most probably it was just the realization of something universal finally coming to light: the quest for recognition, that is. It was November still, all men made conflicts took central stage afterwards and I couldn’t dwell on creations of my own devise as usual.
Waiting for all excuses to be exhausted, so that I can embrace writing and other artistic aspirations more seriously. I don’t really know how much more successful with such attempts I would have been so far if books like these were available to me and all other aspiring artists as girls in the 90’s. In a time when women’s rights were thought to be mainly fully accomplished in the west, we were actually still playing supporting roles while carrying the burden of care and nurture mostly on our own. Still deemed to be too loud and emotional, increasingly so as the skin tone darkens and the longitude approaches North, we have learnt to tamper with our own intentions and specialise in making somebody else's projects happen. That was at least my experience in central Europe, while my apparent exoticism certainly lent a certain air of diversity to some otherwise anodyne creative processes. In my own country I barely ever left the assistance position.
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