Born into this world, my face is an inheritance which blooms inside a particular set of social political and esthetic criteria. That face is the manifestation of my parent legacy. The way I look decides more than I know as my circle expands. Later, my face, per chance, becomes the mirror in a lover’s heart. A face can become the embodiment of love itself as I experience it towards someone myself. It is a miracle.
The belief of being good looking, ugly or average comes as a death sentence to innocence. How much then was gained and how much was lost? How long and what does it take to not care anymore? Was it the power of love or its loss that freed me from superficial questions? Inside my being, my face feels like my emotions’ drum.
What is said to me day to day affects me and eventually in its repetition, shows on my face. The way I am looked at changes the way I look back. My emotions traverse my whole body to transpire or not on my face. Time, weather, hormones, diet will keep on changing my face. A trauma will devastate it. It is a sculpture. How young and beautiful is a face when the person is happy!
Even if it is the most public place of the body - in broad day light- the mystery of your identity still remains. A scar, a burn, sickness, accident and age give little space to hide from being labeled. But inside, the mask of muscles that inverted face is remains the same -ageless in its offerings, nourished by the invisible.
The face is what I have to see and give to be seen, but to be complete it needs to be heard.
I am listening with my colors and camera. Face me. It is safe.