Three autobiographical works

The Whore and the Giant.

Festival Escena Contemporánea, Madrid, 2011.

This play was born from the action of searching again and again articles on the Spanish newspaper El País´s web, searching the names of the different massacres carried out in Colombia by paramilitaries during the government of Álvaro Uribe, without finding practically none information. And thinking that there are too many bodies tortured and killed, so that it is an oversight. To read the words of journalists who talk about democracy, development aid and terrorism, and who never name the economic dimension of the massacres. The businesses that go from drug trafficking to the expansion of the territories of large landowners and the construction of hydroelectric plants to oil drilling. The economy and its dead.

A trip through southern Colombia that opens inside me. A river surrounded by thousands of hectares of dead oil palm - an ecological disaster that started from the desire to sell "clean energy" to Europe - and the Afro-Colombian populations who, after naming the horror and massacres in their communities, danced salsa. A funeral in which old women sang until the early hours praise and where a woman, after telling jokes about her dead mother, cried with a depth that I can not reach. Remember the woman who told me that she was going to stay on her small plot of land after the murder of her husband, knowing that the paramilitaries could kill her and be more than ever aware of my inability to go beyond words and its representation . Of my inability to run the same risks as them.

That is why this work is also born of shame.
And of a need. Write this work with names and surnames.
Trying not to forget any.
At least that.

The Birth of my violence

Young Vic Theater and Festival of Edinburgh, Theater Uncut project. 2013.

And we made a movie of our lives. And as in all films, we were immortal and we felt inhabited by diverse emotions. And we became the explorer who rules the world or the father or mother of a happy family, and we were moved. And we touch the walls with our fingers and tell ourselves, this is not a papier-mache wall. This is our life.

And the wall of the decoration wobbles.

And I go back to the movie of my life, which, like all the others, keeps the bullet of the happy ending, and I choose a final taken from a golden century play where everyone ends up married. But in the image only our empty changing rooms hang.
And the movie starts to catch fire.
And the set begins to catch fire.
And the images of my relatives begin to catch fire.
And the memory of the woman I love seems to catch fire.
And I see a precipice, as if it were a tunnel of fire.

The future started yesterday

BAD Festival, Bilbao, 2015.

This play began as a play about pain.
The pain in my house, in my childhood, the violence in my family.
A few months later, my sister fell.
I traveled to Buenos Aires to support her and I had a crisis that forced me to stop.
I met up again with my sisters, with my mom, with my father, with my friends and with the woman with whom I shared so many years of my life. She hugged me the afternoon I fell on the floor.
I saw the son of a friend born and fight for his life and I saw again the child I was.
I recognized my own frailty and singing along with my grandmother and my mother, I knew that without love nothing made sense.
I wrote this work with my family, with their words and their silences.
There were times when I felt there was no point in continuing.
So my sister made it a song.