Violeta Mora Acosta

A hazy layer covers an abandoned town, the noise has replaced the sounds of nature, the machines do not stop. A man performs a rite to try to save us.

Trapped in a place surrounded by the immensity of the sea, a man travels through space interacting with what still gives him life. The sea is freedom, but also confinement. He finds a mangrove tree lying in the middle of the water. Unable to leave, he rests in its shade, and like Jonah, trapped in the darkness, he longs to escape from the depths.

When darkness falls, the walking begins in this vital, visceral evocation of the experience of migrants undertaking a hazardous journey on foot across the US border.

Chalk on felt, the sound of scissors, the creation of a friend

No synopsis available yet.

The night is dark and cold, I walk through the plantations, I look at the leaves and stems of the banana trees while memories of my grandfather come to my mind.

A hazy layer covers an abandoned town, the noise has replaced the sounds of nature, the machines do not stop. A man performs a rite to try to save us.

Trapped in a place surrounded by the immensity of the sea, a man travels through space interacting with what still gives him life. The sea is freedom, but also confinement. He finds a mangrove tree lying in the middle of the water. Unable to leave, he rests in its shade, and like Jonah, trapped in the darkness, he longs to escape from the depths.

When darkness falls, the walking begins in this vital, visceral evocation of the experience of migrants undertaking a hazardous journey on foot across the US border.

Chalk on felt, the sound of scissors, the creation of a friend

No synopsis available yet.

The night is dark and cold, I walk through the plantations, I look at the leaves and stems of the banana trees while memories of my grandfather come to my mind.

The night is dark and cold, I walk through the plantations, I look at the leaves and stems of the banana trees while memories of my grandfather come to my mind.

The night is dark and cold, I walk through the plantations, I look at the leaves and stems of the banana trees while memories of my grandfather come to my mind.

Perhaps the gap between the memory of the past and that of the future is where you can search and find better.

A lagoon in Cuba suddenly dries up. All that remains of this lost landscape is an old painting with faded contours. This is the starting point for Violeta Mora’s quest: how does one remember a landscape that is no longer there? She then interviews those who do remember it, in an attempt to make the lagoon reappear.