With the grace of a witch, Fernanda Laguna practices the creating of spaces. From within those spaces sprout unimaginable or fanciful beings and mundane knicknacks, themselves sufficient. She is a gnostic demiurge who drives the void. She multiplies her hours and fills them to the brim with humble works of antiart that gloat in the squandering of imagination given form. At the same time, her ethic is ecological and economic. She has traversed the great waters like one who traverses the endless crises of Argentina—which is to say, humanity.
She enjoys the gift of attraction: scenes, contexts, little girls, eras, and cats gravitate toward her being. And she, a slight and subtle body, also allows herself to be attracted and to orbit and to ramble rudderless through cosmic rooms.
The water of her body overflows the rivers and that high energy proves infectious.
Fernanda Laguna does not write. She invokes.
Shook practices mimicry, transmutation, and betrayal. They do not translate. They divine.