Alicia Olmos Ochoa
Documentary Photography

I change positions and observe with patience. Through my camera I capture moments that appear beyond interesting to me. I sometimes write a few key words on my notebook such as:

tic tac tic tac tic tac tic tac tic tac tic tac tic tac tic tac tic tac, jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj rrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii (12 min después) stupid fly

I’m concentrated on her movements, how her body changes throughout the day. Her back seems to ache after a few hours, so she stretches. The lighting variates and as it does I must change positions. I move constantly through the room, silently, without shoes.

A visitor. After observing from the street hesitant to step into the room, he enters. Doesn’t stay long.

I start to feel hungry but I’ve been told to eat as little as possible during the performance. For Alicia it’s important that I “stay with her”, engaging with the act, so I stay. Besides, the timer is up again.

Numbers play a huge part in the story.  3 days, 5 hours, 15 hours, 12 minutes, 60 minutes, 5 cameras, 2 laptops… It’s controlled. It’s so controlled, it’s not free. The way she creates the hair-rings is also extremely systematic, almost mathematical. The writings on the polaroids: the date, time of day, number of picture. The hairs that go into the waste pile and the ones that go into the useful pile. It’s machinery. She’s a machine. She is producing an object out of her own body.

Timer. It goes on for minutes that turn into hours. 12 past , 24 past, 36 past, 48 past, and again 00, 12 past, 24 past, 36 past, 48 past, 00, etc.

Every 60 minutes the SD card in the cameras are full and need to be replaced quietly and as quickly as possible so there’s not one minute unrecorded. Full SD card goes into the laptop and empty SD card goes into the camera. I go back to my position.

I’m a machine too.

Something that supposedly must be pure ritual, organic and human suddenly transforms into something quite the opposite: restrained, controlled, calculated, unfree, limited, robotic.

The fact that this duality takes place in the conversation is surprising but interesting.

It is then, when the performance takes its own life. It’s its own self now and there’s nothing the artist, the viewer or anybody can do to stop it from growing. The beautiful part about art is the relationship it has with the artist. The art grows independent from its creator, exits their body becoming something else, something new and exciting that speaks for itself. No science is able to contain that.