One of those days

I always feel my illustrations can be interpreted in a million different ways, so with this one, I asked my Instagram followers to tell me her story.

It was interested how everyone interpreted her apparent sadness and what might have caused it.


There was nothing more she wanted than to smell again; the scent of thick lust musk. But the truth is, it would’ve killed her. Slowly, softly, and silently.

And as much as she wished on every eyelash that fell onto her fingertips in the morning, the universe had set out different plans for her.

This is a story about a woman who was lost and continues to lose. Unable to smell her desires, she stuck her head in an unending cement loop; leaving her with the only option to perpetually breathe in the rotting breath of her own mouth.



Empezó siendo un clavo. Un clavo de concreto, oblicuo sobre una superficie horizontal, nada fuera de lo ordinario. La peluca vino después. Una peluca negra, lacia, para cubrir el remache que siempre le pareció en exceso simplón. El vestido, las pequeñas manitas de porcelana, algunas flores de colores, terminaron de darle cuerpo al cuerpo. Entonces, dejó de ser un clavo. ¿Dejó de ser un clavo?



The more she thought about it the bigger the pain became. After all not everyday one is dumped at the altar.



She is changing her life’s direction. At first it seems like a catastrophe but she is heading in the right direction



Le même schéma se reproduit dans sa vie sentimentale. Aucun homme ne voit ce qu’elle aspire réellement. Tout ce qu’elle reçoit, ce sont des fleurs. Elle en prend soin mais elles se fanent silencieusement. L’amour qu’elle y construit n’est jamais plus large que cette perspective. Quand bien même il n’en reste plus rien à la fin, le schéma se répète. La bonne nouvelle c’est qu’elle a découvert cet amour qui ne se limite plus à la possessivité.