Who really belongs to oneself? Not even time has denied the unscathed step that prevents it from staying. It just gets carried away and happens. Perhaps we could think of the foam crawling the beach, blurring in sweet caress the fine thread of existence that becomes one, a single journey; turning from the shades of the swinging that breaks in waves, the good desire to look for the craving of being. Where I am is where I exist.
Thus, nothing is totally owned by anyone, nor has it ever been. At birth we dwell an unpostponable wink. A sigh that means the great opportunity to be one, to mutate into the moves of a cry so plural to the invader inspiration, once is admitted. That which is true is disposed to the feet of the whole world, the soul with which one looks, the memory without a tendency to forget its plots. We are not what we saw, we saw what is.
Irene Cruz invites us to look from the deep within, right from the edge of silent phrases she translates through her muses, the well-known figures. Authors of an inspirational breeze turned into friends. They all gather together and mark a precept of becoming the same delicate identity. It is the name given to all, silky skin in the flesh with the right dress , and their favorite flowers resting on the linings that scarcely delimit their earthly body, from a landscape filled with bluish haze and colors of rare hours, at the eternal autumnal forest. They make one feel the sweetness of the perfume that bathes them and slides down their neck, binds the limbs with carelessness or rests on the preferred turns of desire; crowning their hair or waiting for the next movements, foreign to any fear.
Epitome of a muse are the muses alike. The task is simple: to heighten the desire of perpetuate the immensity of the environment of an artist, who will dedicate to see beyond everything and freeze moments in contexts that do not expire. The thrill of thinking within the refuge of truth. Creation in pursuit of being as far as life can reach. If one understands that to look does not obey to clear notes, first sights and facades, each image of the glitter presented by Irene gives us her reflection: the impulse to leave portions of the soul-artist in each one of her shots. For it is well known that the eyes are the mirror of the soul, Irene portraits her muses without a face capable of returning that audacious stare to the waiting spectator. So, the cycle the cycle cannot be broken (perhaps), and prevents from delving into distractions. It might be opportune to think that she would do so to make clear that this dissected moment is the world that inspires her, the world she sees on daily basis and implies new creationist overturns.
It is the world to which she adheres to, so the urgency of showing beauty without shelter never leaves. That world is the one she looks at. That world is all her through a lens, and on this fragile line she dedicates her career to reinterpreting silences, to dress quiet nudity with the flowers of a life, to imitate herself in the figures of women who walk beside her for the fortune of meeting each other; raising natures, giving a well-deserved treatment to the consciousness of the body, to the whisper of the earth and the embrace of a tree; to the water that despairs to take its channel in time.
Words are revealed as an alluring relief converging in calm. Because trying to solve the few encounters throughout these years with the passion revealed, shortens within distance. Perhaps we all are them, the muses renamed in images of candles that once pointed the path to poetry, or whatever these letters seem to mean. Let that be the only truth: not knowing how to stand still and put on the whole ground as a shoe, or belong to the time that means beauty.
Christian Chávez Plascencia
My dear imaginary friend
The Muses - Photobook
Photographs/ Fotografías: Irene Cruz
Prologue/ Prólogo: Christian Chávez Plascencia
Translation/ Traducción: Christian Chávez Plascencia & Juan Yuste
Languages/ Idiomas: Spanish + English
Under the title, The Muses, Irene Cruz gathers a series of images in which, she captures women with whom she has crossed paths over the years and that, in some way, she drew inspiration from. And this way to photography them is, to say the least, interesting: she asks them to craft a performance art piece outdoors and takes pictures of them, creating authentic visual records of their actions, just as natural as they are poetic.