The Dream of Living
That obsessive searching for life in the mother´s places invades the daughter´s habits, memories, dreams and fears, it determines that space and reiterates the concern to capture each one´s time, to rescue it from the mirrors´ infinite reflection. In any of the instants, indecipherable magic, furtive encounters, an interplay of gazes, secret writing.
And open the door, barely ajar, opens up our unconfessable fears, the search for what is inside. Caressing her hair, feeling her warmth, finding renewed comfort, peace; nothing could happen to me when I slipped into her bed.
That obsessive searching for life in the mother´s places invades the daughter´s habits, memories, dreams and fears, it determines that space and reiterates the concern to capture each one´s time, to rescue it from the mirrors´ infinite reflection. In any of the instants, indecipherable magic, furtive encounters, an interplay of gazes, secret writing.
And open the door, barely ajar, opens up our unconfessable fears, the search for what is inside. Caressing her hair, feeling her warmth, finding renewed comfort, peace; nothing could happen to me when I slipped into her bed.
From Mothers to Daughters
Dances of love, indifference and solitude, tales of a mutual feeling of identification and, finally, meetings in the places of women´s solitariness. Stories in which a love of live succumbs, to pass on the legacy that all mothers have the privilege of passing on to their daughters.
How much time we lose in silences. So much to say, yet never once saying I love you.
There is love. There is hate. There are reproaches. There is pain. There is rivalry. There is forgiveness. And always, always, there is solitariness.
Dances of love, indifference and solitude, tales of a mutual feeling of identification and, finally, meetings in the places of women´s solitariness. Stories in which a love of live succumbs, to pass on the legacy that all mothers have the privilege of passing on to their daughters.
How much time we lose in silences. So much to say, yet never once saying I love you.
There is love. There is hate. There are reproaches. There is pain. There is rivalry. There is forgiveness. And always, always, there is solitariness.
My Mother´s Suitcase
Memories, indecisions, dreams and failures, advice, presences, desires, illusions, doubts and disasters, sadness, "mummy, where do I put this?"
Alone now, she was np longer a daughter, she was only a mother, she had to pass on the legacy that all mothers have the privilege of passing on to their daughters.
Memories, indecisions, dreams and failures, advice, presences, desires, illusions, doubts and disasters, sadness, "mummy, where do I put this?"
Alone now, she was np longer a daughter, she was only a mother, she had to pass on the legacy that all mothers have the privilege of passing on to their daughters.
Rice and Salt Time
Because only by sailing on do we forget that the cycle is inexorable, and not even by casting anchor can we stop the time that takes away some fears and brings others mothers and daughters, in a limitless succession, are the ones who weave this soft caress in the passage through life.
Initially, the excitement of someone advancing enamoured of the trace they leave, without remembering that the waves have already washed away others footsteps. Because, before that, there was another woman who entered the sea. And before that, And before.
Because only by sailing on do we forget that the cycle is inexorable, and not even by casting anchor can we stop the time that takes away some fears and brings others mothers and daughters, in a limitless succession, are the ones who weave this soft caress in the passage through life.
Initially, the excitement of someone advancing enamoured of the trace they leave, without remembering that the waves have already washed away others footsteps. Because, before that, there was another woman who entered the sea. And before that, And before.
Passing on the Legacy
Legacy, transmission and transition, passing on the baton. A continuous weaving, from grandmother to mother and from mother to daughter, the act of delivering, of giving life, which prepares us for death.
Legacy, transmission and transition, passing on the baton. A continuous weaving, from grandmother to mother and from mother to daughter, the act of delivering, of giving life, which prepares us for death.
She looks at herself and sometimes she sees herself as her mother. She looks at her daughter and some times she sees herself.But there is something of the little girl in the past that she does not manage to find. In the transition she still seeks that gaze that now does not strike true.
Natividad Navalón
Natividad Navalón
