Sleeping in a bed of thorns

In the heart of a field overgrown with wild vegetation, where life once thrived under the hands of my ancestors, stretches a landscape of loss and neglect. This once fertile land, a source of sustenance and vitality, now lies beneath coarse thorns and weeds, hidden from the gaze of the few passersby. Abandoned and lifeless, it stands as an endless monument to the past, slowly merging into the relentless force of nature.

In my video performance, I find myself on this forgotten land, engaging in a Sisyphean effort to reach its essence with small scissors. The blades cut through the grass, freeing the landscape, yet the deeply rooted thorns remain, making the space beneath me uncomfortable and harsh. This place, both personal and distant, immediate and ancient, persists in the contrast between its barren exterior and a core infused with the dreams of those who came before me.

The absence of houses, of beds where my ancestors once slept peacefully, reflects the lack of care for this land. Despite the seeming futility, I make a defiant gesture, a ritual of return, no matter how small. As I cut through the invasive plants, I try to create a space, a bed where I could lie down. It is not soft, not comfortable; it is a bed of thorns. But it is still mine.