it was many years ago. when I still believed I was going to be an artist. and I was an idolising fan of that director I had discovered one evening at the cinema. I went to Venice to see his exhibition. I didn’t care about the biennale. I didn’t know who Fortuny was. blinded by curiosity. like a bloodhound after #mirabilia. and then. on my own. full of. restrained. restrained, as usual. excitement. because I had found the palace. and managed to get in. I was about to attend what would probably become the most important event in my life. which would switch on one hundred. maybe one thousand lights more. because Greenaway was the only thing that absorbed my thoughts. and my senses. during that time. when I found myself in front of a painting whose centre was occupied by a man’s leg. and the music all around. the lights. the velvet. Greenaway. all around. and I paused to look at this strange composition. with my head slightly tilted to one side. like the head of a dog or a hen when they become curious. it was a #stilllife. a horned skull. a shell. a thigh. or a human ham. tasty. young. firm. strong. planted in the middle of the painting. the bulbs exploded. and weren’t replaced again.
I dedicate this issue to Peter Greenaway. who gave me many other magnificent still lives. cooked. served into dish. decomposing.
I dedicate this issue to Michael Nyman. who has been helping me for years to remember and to focus on writing what I feel.
I dedicate it to the #STILLLIFE of Mariano Fortuny. to the sense of freedom conveyed by that thigh. that made everything seem possible to me. everything funny. everything dead but in death reborn.

 Lina Vergara Huilcamán