WHITE ROSES USED TO MAKE ME CRY, THEY DON’T ANYMORE
A series of cyanotype photograms made with white roses.

I grew up surrounded by flowers. We would stop the car with my mother in the middle of the street and sneak into a garden to steal flowers. We would never get roses.

The first time I held a rose was at my friend’s funeral, Fefa. Through the encounter of cyanotype photograms I intend a practice of letting go control and make amends with roses. Some of this roses transform into photographs or perhaps into paintings. Some are explicit, others are blurry. The same is with memories, sometimes it’s vividly clear and other times, not as much.