lucia david

2011-10-16T10:20:00.000-07:00

Moments, places, smells and repeated dreams mix together to become a reinvented, almost surreal childhood. Each object abandoned at the bottom of a drawer or a cupboard is enough to originate a new thread of fictional but personal narratives. This series of works is centered in real objects randomly combined, that tell unreal although possible stories.

WAS IT POSSIBLE

2011-04-27T14:06:00.001-07:00

"O rosto estava dilacerado em múltiplos golpes e o nariz, as faces, as sobrancelhas e as orelhas tinham sido parcialmente arrancados. Os lábios estavam pálidos e retalhados por várias incisões oblíquas que chegavam ao queixo. Havia ainda numerosos cortes aplicados de forma regular sobre toda a cara.“ (Relatório Post-mortem de Mary Kelly)

Esta breve descrição com mais de 120 anos faz parte de um dos maiores mistérios do mundo do crime. Aconteceu em Whitechapell , em Londres, no Outono de 1888.
Quem teria sido capaz de semelhante feito? Como foi possivel aniquilar várias mulheres sem que ninguém tenha ouvido um grito que fosse? Quem eram essas vítimas? Como se cruzaram com o criminoso?
Cento e vinte e três anos depois, continuam a escrever-se centenas de livros sobre o assunto e dezenas de suspeitos continuam a ser apontados. A mais recente descoberta coloca uma questão ainda mais interessante: poderia ter sido uma mulher!

Esta é a base da exposição intitulada WAS IT POSSIBLE? No entanto , para mim, há muito mais histórias para contar do que uma breve descrição de como Jack O Estripador matou cinco ou mais prostitutas. Estas mulheres, classificadas de „Unfortunates“ (desafortunadas) nasceram algures, foram meninas, ouviram histórias de encantar, tiveram sonhos de futuro, usaram chapéus com flores, compraram vestidos, pentearam o cabelo, casaram, tiveram filhos, cozinharam, lavaram roupa...até que um dia acabaram por vender a única mercadoria disponível...o seu próprio corpo. O negócio era simples. Uma sessão rápida de sexo pelo preço de um copo de gin. Um copo de gin para diluir a desilusão de uma vida sem futuro. Uma morte adiada por mais uns dias ou umas horas, num tempo e numa cidade em que se arrendava um canto de um quarto para dormir...uma cama suja de uma camarata num albergue...ou se percorria as ruas até as pernas cederem e se cair de exaustão debaixo de um vão de escada.

Com esta exposição eu gostaria de falar um pouco sobre outros recantos destas vidas femininas antes de se terem cruzado com a faca de Jack e expor detalhes dos crimes e da investigação policial, da vida e da cidade que acontecia à sua volta. E talvez devolver-lhes ( a todas Elas) um pouco de alma...

Lúcia David 2011

moonlight

2010-03-14T03:44:00.000-07:00

“Sra. Enfermeira, abra-me a janela, por favor!” Eu já vos contei a história do meu avô. Ele foi comprar cigarros, deixando a minha avó sozinha, com duas crianças sem pai. Mas, apesar de ter sido abandonada, a minha avó sempre teve alguma coisa boa para contar sobre o marido. Numa noite, já tarde, durante o verão, eu ouvi parte duma conversa entre a minha mãe a minha avó. Elas estavam sentadas na varanda, olhando o céu.
”O teu pai estava muito nervoso no dia em que tu nasceste. Já o tinha desiludido uma vez. Antes da hora do jantar eu mal aguentava as dores. Teimosamente, eu tinha passado o dia a esfregar e a encerar o soalho. Nessa altura não tínhamos água corrente eu fui várias vezes à fonte da vila. Pedi-lhe para chamar o doutor. Tu nasceste em casa. Depois do teu primeiro choro, ele pegou em ti e correu lá para fora. Levantou-te com os seus braços fortes e cheio de orgulho, mostrou à lua como eras radiante. Nessa noite, tal como hoje, a lua estava envolta numa auréola laranja.”
Eu já estou velha e muito em breve vou morrer. Herdei uma doença cerebral degenerativa que me roubou metade da vida, mas sempre que possível eu tento espreitar a lua do meu avô.

DEPARTED (in 31 days)

2010-02-12T15:00:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER I – LAST EXIT

Day one - She got the finger pointing out the front door. He had came from abroad…he was a businessman, a cold businessman.
Day two - She had enough. She had to go. She could not take it anymore…had pile up too many wrong emotions.
Day three - The taxi was waiting…the taxi driver was a woman, and she drove slow the 40 miles to the next town.
Day four – It was the new beginning…it was the creation of her new world.
Day five – But she cracked up the moment she realized she was free and alone.
Day six – It was but the end of the bad dream. Starting now… from those ruins covered by weeds … enveloped in ivy like hell.
Day seven – A big black cat lurked behind the rotten piece of wood that was one day the entrance door. That carried a marvellous message… the house was after all inhabited…
Day eight – Vanity wasn’t one of her sins. She didn’t even like herself or her reflection in the mirror…but her shadow silhouette against the cracked wall was remarkable.
Day nine - The crescent moon produced on her a sense of safety. The dark shadows inside the empty and cold house were like ghosts dripping from the walls. She felt calm and fearless.
Day ten – Rootless. That was the feeling when she woke up. Then she got fresh coffee.
Day eleven – She had seen a little door in the attic. She decided to explore. Inside she found a morbid display: the bones of a human arm still holding a Gris Gris. She picked up the little heart shaped dusty bag and inside she saw a used tampon, some hairs, dirt and a wedding-ring; and embroidered in the cloth: deux bras, un cœur
Day twelve – That find was certainly macabre...but it held a delicate sweetness, despite all the malevolent effects that black magic could have inflicted to the owner of that set of bones.

CHAPTER II - NO SHAME

Day thirteen – During her teens she had always looking into obeying to the social rules. She was nothing but an invented character in a badly written fiction book. She did not hold a strong spirit within herself; she was just a silent servant, some sort of commodity that the family could display on Sundays Mass.
Day fourteen – Sweet talk was never enough for her. Behind those innocent eyes, tears were hiding perpetually.
Day fifteen – She felt very tired in that afternoon from intensely digging into her memories...she just needed to lie down for a few minutes, under the big tree.
Day sixteen – This blank page in front of her was more inspiring than all the beautifully done, one hundred and three drawings that she had look at before. She closed the book and put it back on the shelf. She remembered that event from her sixteenth birthday.
Day seventeen - When she completed seventeen she started to travel on her own. She went to study on another town. At that time she got her first suitcase and the matching cosmetic bag. The brand name was – Parfois.
Day eighteen – In this year she would have to respond for herself. She could vote, she could commit a crime or she could go away. The first vomit draft she wrote was about shame.

CHAPTER III – ENCLOSURE

Day nineteen - She had been there for twenty days, tomorrow. By now she knew every bird or insect that belonged to that enclosed piece of nature. She started to make the first flower bed.
Day twenty – Silence. In her head, around her body, inside the house, out in the open...there was just silence. She finally entered the tunnel of inner balance.
Day twenty one – There was to many obstacles in her life. She had to build bridges all the time...get to the other side...never jump off.
Day twenty-two – The box was inside a cupboard. She never saw it since she arrived in the house. She emptied it and turned it inside out. There was a name written on it.
Day twenty-three – She just had discovered a stash of old notes. Foreign currency that she never encountered before. Pieces of paper... that’s all it was, but on the other hand she could buy gratitude with it.
Day twenty-four – Has a businessman, her husband cared for one thing only...power. And power meant money. With that found treasure she could finally buy her freedom for good. The air smelled of earth and the dark night was full of fireflies. She felt good.

CHAPTER IV – WIDE AWAKE

Day twenty-five – Crying was not her thing, neither was a good laughter. She kept to herself her hard feelings. This summer she promised to let go and just sing-along with the cicadas...
Day twenty–six –The light in the kitchen was coming from the north window.
It set on the table painting the white cloth with shadows. There was a cup of coffee, a clean ashtray and an apple. A perfect breakfast for one.
Day twenty-seven - Alone and after killing her pain she entered the path of self-indulgence, diving into her memories of lost loves. She was a “melancaholic”.
Day twenty-eight – She wasted all chances of being happy . Every time she convinced herself that she had seen happiness coming. In the end all those moments were fabricated by her will of enjoying a normal life, like any other girl. Then she decided to become a gambler.
Day tweenty-nine – That was the day …but blood did not arrive.
The idea of a house is always about walls of concrete and tiled roofs. She did not know it, but she was a house already…carring the next generation inside her. She did not want to be a breeder.
Day thirty – This unborn thing inside her gave her strength. She went back to tell the husband about her decision and to buy her freedom. She did not know what would encounter but she hoped for the best. She was starting her preemptive war.
Day thirty-one – She didn’t recognise herself anymore. She felt naked. Striped off of any values, any emotions, and any feelings. She stopped in front of the husband’s front door house and froze…turned around and left. She looked at the road ahead.

RUG

2010-01-05T09:58:00.000-08:00

RUG
Monday, 9 a.m.. They did not go to work, as any other day of the week. They didn’t answer the phone. The breakfast was untouched. Croissants butter strawberry jam, banana slices with cream, coffee, cold milk, sugar, and a pack of cigarettes on the table. They said good morning and their words forcefully wove into woven senseless phrases, into furious undiscerning discourses. They slapped each other across the face with perverted insults. Their love was like a piece of cloth displayed on the floor, stomped over and over. Stained by sperm, saliva and blood. Their loveless love was a purple bruise, a red wine stain, a dismembered rose. 10 a.m. The coffee was cold. The pack of cigarettes half empty. They were so young. A young inexperienced couple. They were foul vicious lovers, eating each other space and life. Half past 12. The postman delivered two letters. No one cared, nor the neighbours or the relatives, no one tried to stop them, no one interfered. There was no police officer, no social service official and no priest. 2.45 p.m. The cutlery drawer was wide open. They stabbed each other right in each other chests, as they could no longer take the pain of such malady, such intensity, such fury, such love. At 3 p.m. they lied on the rug together hand on hand, until the light became white and dense and the floor vivid red. The night came down and darkness took them away. No one heard anything, was repeatedly said. 8.00 a.m. Tuesday. The same postman saw the entrance blood flooded. The newspaper wrote a few lines about a found-dead, race-mixed couple that committed suicide and for sure was involved in some fundamentalist religious practice. The case was closed. For a week there were cheap flower bunches and lightened small candles, teddy bear postcards with short grieving phrases and meaningful tears, at their door, for the ones that would walk pass. Life continued, in that building, in that street, in that town, likes always. The world never knew about it, or about their love, their Christian names, their hopes or their foolish dreams. They were nothing more than a number in a passport or in a personnel department database. It de no difference.

WINE AND ROSES

2010-01-05T09:50:00.001-08:00

WINE AND ROSES
That morning she woke up with a metallic sweet taste in her mouth. The wine jug still lay broken on the floor. The purple stain on the table cloth. The glass holding the print from her lips. The bruises on her face and the pain in her heart. Dried roses spread all over. Reminiscence, for time to come. Of him, of love, of rage.

2010-01-05T09:45:00.001-08:00

EMBEDDED
Embedded love is the worst kind you can catch. It’s like a forever cold. You can’t breath. You want to smile and want to cry. You just seat there and take it in full. You seat there waiting to stretch wings and go way but you can’t move. You love so badly that you ache. You love so much that you hate yourself. You forget about your own existence. You can not see but the other and the beauty and you seat and contemplate, and stay still and feel just foolishly happy. Is this not totally unbearable! Totally incomprehensible! And so inappropriate! You, seating there growing roots, deeper and deeper, that feed on presents and love notes, promises of eternity and procreation. Until. And that punch comes. It hits you somewhere in the head and you fall down and you taste the musty flavour of your dirty carpet and the salt of your tears, and you try to breath and it’s all blocked and bloody. And then, Only then!, you grab the chair where you have been just seating and start to smash the furniture and the windows and the china presents, but then it’s to late! Your heart is already broken and your veins poisoned, and your brain has expired. Now there’s only embedded misery to take on board.

ENTANGLEMENT

2010-01-05T09:42:00.001-08:00

ENTANGLEMENT

She had so many relationships, as many as a young women can have, up to the point of losing herself and her own identity। Each one of the love stories, longer or shorter, would encapsulate a moment or an item from the previous one. This new element would be part of her own identity and would be passed on to the next love story. She became an overloaded, over layered and over faceted object. She was a violin played in different tunes at different moments by different musicians for thirty-five years. The varnish decayed and the wood turned soft, feeling like smooth velvet. The edges were progressively erased and she became a disfigured and amorphous lump. When played, the sound was a piercing and echoing howl. She became a wounded animal. She looked like a living mummified body. When she died a suspicious death, the forensic pathologists discovered that the body suffered gradual abnormal mutations. The heart was resting in the intestines’ soft bed and was linked with the urinal vessel pumping out impurities. The brain emerged from the left lung and was supplying the oxygen to the blood system. The kidneys, a pair of filters, were in the scull cavity commanding and protecting the body. The stomach was reduced to a microscopic empty skin bag and was not functioning. After the laboratory analysis the spinal cord was categorised as a type of silicone with more than 100 per cent elasticity never encountered before. This case is filed in the archives of the Museum of Severe Amorphism.

SACRAMENT

2010-01-05T09:39:00.000-08:00

SACRAMENT
“Tomorrow will be that special day!”- She said to the mirror, in her room. She looked around and said goodbye to every thing, one by one. “Tomorrow, I will go out that door, and never ever return. It will be the happiest day of my life!” She left next morning in her wedding dress, framed in flowers.
She came back at 6 p.m. White and livid. The coffin was cream coloured, with satin lining. The bride bouquet still was on her hands. A shooting happened at the Town-Hall, between a gypsy teenager and the police. A lost bullet pierced her back. Sudden death before the eternal vows. She was lucky.

2009-10-24T17:07:00.000-07:00

2009-10-24T16:44:00.000-07:00

2009-08-10T12:44:00.000-07:00

IRON AND FLESH
My great-grandmother was an unbending kind of woman. She did not like abusive men at all, she did not tolerate abuse...full stop. She was around 14 years old by that time. The iron was red-hot, in her hand, ready. The clothes on the table very white, very clean, waiting to get starched, in that afternoon of small rain washing down the window glass. The man coming from the street entered the sewing room to pickup his ready shirts. He looked her in the eyes and with intent fondled her young breasts, slightly showing in the flowery dress, underneath the exceptionally immaculate lacy apron. Pulling her long ponytail, he tilted her head back and tried to kiss her reddish lips. She just swung the iron, forward and left, roasting his face’s flesh. The smell would be noticed on the street for many days after the event.