Two years ago, my father committed suicide. Since then, I have lived with the persistent urgency to do things for him: to preserve him, to hold him, to contain what remains.
I revisited the locations of his absence, trying to find some meaning. Because when someone dies, one is compelled to find a new setting for that love.
This affection, now orphaned of its purpose, must be set down somewhere.
Through archival photographs modified with embroidery and thread, porcelain sculptures, texts, and the tactile examination of the objects he left behind, I seek to alleviate that urgency.
This project is about the paradox of fixing the unfixable and accepting his life and his desire to die
I’m driving home, Olivia in her car seat. A call comes in.
True Caller says “Sergeant Olivares.”
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon. Am I speaking with the daughter of the gentleman who lives at Heriberto Covarrubias, Apartment 1602?”
And I knew.
True Caller says “Sergeant Olivares.”
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon. Am I speaking with the daughter of the gentleman who lives at Heriberto Covarrubias, Apartment 1602?”
And I knew.
Every now and then, the news hits me all over again, as if I were hearing it for the first time. For a second, I forget that I already knew, that it’s real, that I’ve already lived through it. Then everything becomes very strange. It feels as though reality were a joke, an absurd story that happened to someone else. That feeling lingers for a while.
I think about my dad every day. While I wash my hair, while having breakfast, while dressing Olivia. I always think of him when I’m driving. Since he passed away, life has changed very little; I keep doing the things I used to do. Same schedules, same routines. But I hardly ever go to Santiago.
In the days that followed, I had to attend to a lot of formalities. I hadn’t realized that dying could involve so much paperwork. Still, handling those tasks brought me some relief; it was a way to keep moving, to avoid stopping to think. The day before the funeral, I walked over to Valparaíso Street—to one of the few remaining express photo shops. I had the portrait printed and bought a nice frame, then went to the El Mercurio office to place the funeral notice. It was a gray day, with a light drizzle falling. As I walked home with the portrait tucked under my arm, I was overcome by a terrible sense of anguish. These were the last things I could do for him. After this, there would be nothing left. The thought devastated me.
- Hello, Dad?
- Hi, sweetheart. How are you?
- I'm good, Dad. How about you?
- I'm doing well, sweetheart.
- How are things going?
- Well... you know, things are a bit difficult at work, but hey... we just have to hang in there. Things have to get better eventually. How’s Olivia, my little princess?
- Hi, sweetheart. How are you?
- I'm good, Dad. How about you?
- I'm doing well, sweetheart.
- How are things going?
- Well... you know, things are a bit difficult at work, but hey... we just have to hang in there. Things have to get better eventually. How’s Olivia, my little princess?
