La familia sumergida

Marcela has just lost her sister Rina, it was sudden. Rina’s apartment must now be cleared of her possessions, the plants, furniture and clothing: succulents, dark wood, patterned scarves, a pair of old sunglasses. The curtains are closed and the light is soft and diffuse, like it must be on the floor of the sea, like it is at home, where Marcela lives with her husband and three teenage children. Family life is chaotic, as there are constant interruptions, the broken washing machine, the telephone calls and unexpected guests, the tears that arrive unannounced, the impromptu songs. Maybe that’s why Marcela starts spending time away with her daughter’s friend or taking refuge in her imagination, playing dress-up and talking nonsense with the kids, although most of the strange scenes that play out for her come forth unasked. In the blueish light, it can be hard to tell exactly when and where you are, even when the action moves out of the two apartments, to the hotel room, to the sports hall, to the country. Grief doesn’t flow in one direction, it seeps between spaces, makes channels of its own, it carries you along with it until you’re able to stand, until all the water is gone. (Viennale, James Lattimer)