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Impossible Island

 

I was born on an impossible island, one I’ve never truly been able to leave. Even when taking to the sea, distancing myself from one of its shores, something—or someone—within me refused to depart.
In the wandering of exile, I became an obsessive islander. Like a man magnetized by the waters, I drew closer to beaches, the banks of rivers, and streams. The quest for the lost island led me to the four corners of the globe. Yet, my imaginary land belongs to no geography. It is not possible. Its emblem is Es Vedrà, the magical islet of Ibiza. I had to endow it with a people—a group made up of eclectic citizens, multi-identity individuals.

For several decades, I reigned over this fantasized republic, this visual utopia scattered with serendipities and synchronicities. From it, I drew my vital force, my reason for being in the world.
My impossibility of an island became a continent of encounters and experiences—a sensory nomadism. It has become a work of art.

Today, it takes shape in Perth, at the antipodes of my place of residence. It has settled in the world’s most isolated capital, a city that is itself an island, another kind of impossible land.

HR

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