Being a mother is to crumble. The baby brings along, into the womb, the whole universe. Infinity takes over, then rips and tears everything up to accommodate itself. In this disruption, the body remains — obedient, devoted, soaked in pleasure, asleep within the baby’s merciless love. The soul leaves, expands, reaches unimaginable places, unimaginable times. Your call, my love, did not reach the chasms, nor the stars, where I had gone. I can picture your loneliness in the face of my absent presence. The longing that filled you had no place in me. The camera was your way of being there. Your images were screams that tried to protect the frailness of our life together. The call is brutal. For the mother, that call will always be premature. One won’t come back in a mere awakening. One won’t come back. I’ve come back, as a different person, from my implosion. You, from your exile.

Helena Rios

Book – 20 x 25 cm with 61 photographs.

Texts by Helena Rios and Rubens Fernandes Junior

Edition with 1000 copies