October of 2012, 5 passports, 5 visas, 5 plane tickets, one 45 minute flight, y pa’ la Yuma (Cuban slang for America). We were casted from struggle into struggle, not to the same degree but struggle nonetheless. Nine years later I find myself questioning my experience as an immigrant more than I ever had. I get the feeling I will never fully belong anywhere, at least I dont think I can. The result is a very eclectic brain, a bunch of misplaced and mismatched objects and memories. Places that I can’t put together. Domestic paradoxes. Houses that don’t feel like my own and homes that feel too confined. With my current practice I am attempting to interrogate this past I actively pushed into the dark for so long. I revisit my family through my art and try to find the connections that I thought were not there anymore, or that I forgot existed, or that I was not even aware of. I feel the need to return to my origins not only to find originality but out of necessity to continue to make work. It feels wasteful, or perhaps I’m just not capable right now, to explore the future without first processing my past and outsourcing everything it has yet to offer my art.