Right there, where the paper folds and wrinkles, is where I slice and cut, carefully subtracting the top layer of paper and revealing the raw fiber beneath layers of paint, ink, or oil pastel. My relationship with paper is closely connected to my body; I see it as a kind of membrane—also as a textile. While working the drawing, I usually drape it over my lap, similar to how women in Mexico traditionally work with textiles. Or I will take the paper and hug it tightly or pull it around myself. The creases left by these action tell a story of the relationship between my body and the paper, and they become guides for me to cut, trace, and subtract. I assume paper's fragility in using it to capture the residue of my process: inflictions of physical interactions, fingerprints, imprints, tears and holes.
The forms in the drawings echo the rhythmic backdrop of my daily life in the city – manhole covers, aura migraines, psychoanalysis, Internet surfing, reality television, the banging sound of an MRI. The work also resonates with geometric motifs of Mexican/Pre-Colombian textiles and the cadence of Catholic prayers—two concepts that are for me psychically linked, syncretism experienced as synesthesia. As my hands and body move across the surface, I become a mechanical recording device receiving and distributing information onto the surface. Marks made by chance actions merge with my “sonic” experiences in the final drawing.