I starting putting shit up on my walls when I was 11 and realized my mom would never let me chop my hair off. My four bedroom walls became the only appearance I could express in my externalized portrayal of angst and internalized confusion. My four bedroom walls were where the creation first exploded. When the walls soaked up all the tears and screams and howls of my pubescent rollercoaster, my four bedroom walls told the story of my own personal history and culture.
This mini-documentary series expresses the chronology of my bedroom–and the girl living in it.
The old Mickey Mouse stencil still dances inside of my eyelids every night. He dances the same dance I used to rattle when I was a bambina. Rattling for hours and hours until finally, I surrender to sleep.