We are mythological creatures. We go looking for the sacrifice that will bestow on us the capacity to forget. We are a fragment of a fragment of what our body remembers, but all of history has passed through it.
This is the image of pain, of a memory that looks for this sacrifice of the blood and the flesh that releases the capacity to remember.
It is the bestial smell of reality, of life when it encounters death, of a body broken into pieces, of when the paternal home, the city that witnessed your birth becomes a scene of comedy.
It is the stench of the open body in the slaughterhouse, it is a moment between day and night, it is the adrenaline and the shameless lament that issues from the entrails to cry out for them.
It is the ritual that allows me to draw what I have lived out of my body, to leave it, trapped, on a piece of paper.

Ixone Sádaba