Pamela's work explores emerging approaches to nature, landscape, and the self; Her work highlights gestures in which peculiarities and details have the possibility of creating new narratives, searching for ways to approach the notions of image, materiality and memory through drawings and photographs that perceive space as a reflective medium of time.



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Pamela's work explores emerging approaches to nature, landscape, and the self; Her work highlights gestures in which peculiarities and details have the possibility of creating new narratives, searching for ways to approach the notions of image, materiality and memory through drawings and photographs that perceive space as a reflective medium
of time.


About
BACK-ROW


︎︎︎ Email
︎︎︎ Instagram
2022

A mark on the wall


GROUP SHOW -
‘En el centro de la fiesta… faltan hielos’ _
Aparador Monterrey, MX

About
A title referring to the first story published by Virginia Wolf “A mark on the wall” deals with the 'spiritual' or psychological aspects of dreams and gaps, seemingly 'unimportant' that we experience in our daily lives.

With the diptych of two oil paintings “Everything is moving, falling, slipping, vanishing.”, and “A vast upheaval of matter.” Pamela experimentsthrough painting the narrative of landscape and its relationship with the depths that Wolf's stories will explore about the description of reality.



Exhibition view
Aparador Monterrey
A vast upheaval if matter. Everything is moving, falling, slipping, vanishing.
Oil on linen
Oil on linen

50x70 cm
50x70 cm

"The Mark on the Wall." by Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
From: Monday or Tuesday. by Virginia Woolf. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc., 1921.
“...I like to think of the tree itself: first the close dry sensation of being wood; then the grinding of the storm; then the slow, delicious ooze of sap. I like to think of it, too, on winter's nights standing in the empty field with all leaves close-furled, nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon, a naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. The song of birds must sound very loud and strange in June; and how cold the feet of insects must feel upon it, as they make laborious progresses up the creases of the bark, or sun themselves upon the thin green awning of the leaves, and look straight in front of them with diamond-cut red eyes.... One by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure of the earth, then the last storm comes and, falling, the highest branches drive deep into the ground again. Even so, life isn't done with; there are a million patient, watchful lives still for a tree, all over the world, in bedrooms, in ships, on the pavement, lining rooms, where men and women sit after tea, smoking cigarettes. It is full of peaceful thoughts, happy thoughts, this tree. I should like to take each one separately–but something is getting in the way.... Where was I? What has it all been about? A tree? A river? The Downs? Whitaker's Almanack? The fields of asphodel? I can't remember a thing. Everything's moving, falling, slipping, vanishing.... There is a vast upheaval of matter.”