Grace Fuentealba

In my art I reckon with what I hold. The things passed down to me by the eldest daughters in my family. The line of women who consecutively step out of my mouth when I speak. My experiences are theirs and theirs mine. The thing they have given to me I can hold with two hands, it is sometimes heavy, sometimes light.

I wade in the shore when I make, feet planted in the inbetween. Contemplating the ocean beyond me, the one my family crossed when the small men gunned down Allende in office. In it, I see the pteropod, its shell being slowly etched away because humans have changed the chemistry of the ocean. The pteropod is being forced to disappear. I recognise the disappearance.