The Voice of Images: A Sensory Album
Today I feel deeply grateful to be able to build these 10 images shaped by words.
They are part of an album my mind rewinds—memories and immutable moments.
I speak of early memories, though little remains. The fragments are sensory impressions, like a full analog camera, with a limited number of printed images etched into me.
Some of them carry sensations and an exuberant observation of the world I once inhabited.
Image 1.
I was a very loved child. I remember how music was part of my childhood, and how it shaped my eclectic taste. Our classic road trips were always the same: Caracas to Valencia, with fixed stops in Tejerías and Maracay.
My father’s caresses on my little legs that reached between the front seats.
The journey always began with classic rock from the 60s and 70s: Janis Joplin, The Doors, Pink Floyd, and many more from his personal pantheon.
Then, without warning, María Dolores Pradera would walk in “por la veredita” with a flower on her lapel. She was followed by endless Mexican rancheras from the revolution. Not to mention a calypso, some salsa, or even Mi Burrito Sabanero (Venezuelan folk music) could escape from that eclectic repertoire.
Image 2.
The most anticipated hours would arrive: Valencia—the great amusement park where my beautiful maternal family lived.
All the cousins our age would gather to play, play, and keep playing. Time felt infinite, and every second was glorious.
I think that’s where my passion for photography and set design began.
We filmed movies, invented scripts, designed costumes, and built sets.
We were so creative and happy. I was in charge of everything visual on stage.
We decorated costumes with flowers and silk sheets, choosing the best fabrics from the Sevillian trunks in Adelaida’s house—my grandparents’ home.
The room with the golden mirror and Persian carpet was the eternal stage for every play we produced.
What a training ground it was—to start thinking like a producer and a director!
Image 3.
That brings me to a beautiful phase: age seven.
My mother and I—she and I—were inseparable.
We would play for hours: pretending to be friends, strangers on the street, surgeons, explorers, little mice, and of course, mother and daughter, and daughter and mother.
At that age, I began to better understand my parents’ emotional states.
I felt their temporary separation, the financial crisis, and the death of my maternal grandmother.
All those emotions and moments floated around our home like lingering ghosts.
I had to get used to being alone for long periods while they both worked.
I learned to cook and be my own, caring for all those wandering entities.
And so, the beautiful and complicated adolescence arrived.
Image 4.
My body and mind began changing before I was ready to grow.
I didn’t want any of it—I just wanted to stay a girl and keep playing.
The transition into womanhood was traumatic, accompanied by a funeral: that of my great-grandmother, Mamá Carmen—another branch of my father's bloodline, living a different reality.
Life there was more humble, more connected to nature, more tied...
and also heavy with the presence of death.
So many losses on that side of the family from such an early age.
Symbolically, it was just another death.
I was no longer a child.
I now had to be a woman, take responsibility for myself, and endure pain and hormonal change.
To be—without knowing how to be.
Image 5.
Fifteen years old.
San Antonio de los Altos (my hometown)—a hormonal rollercoaster.
The need to belong, an immense thirst to be accepted, to be validated,
and a series of foolish decisions that would teach me the most beautiful truth:
that being authentic and true to yourself is the only way.
But it was a cruel road, full of people who didn’t love me.
I placed myself in dangerous and distressing situations, only to still be rejected.
And then, without looking for it, the real thing arrived: friends I still have to this day, who showed me that truth friendship exists.
Image 6.
Caracas, concrete jungle, macaws, guacharacas, and cicadas. A city that breathes fury and violence—but also beauty and joy.
The Central University of Venezuela, El Ávila, my stays in Los Palos Grandes with my cousin Miguel Ángel, the nights at El Maní dancing salsa with the crème de la crème of Caracas, my friend Alejandro—still my partner in adventure and business.
Thinking of those times makes me vibrate high.
Image 7.
In other travels around the world, memories live with such love—
but my trip to Brazil in 2009 showed me the joy and social reality of South America: between poverty and an unstoppable desire to keep joy alive in the soul.
A carnival in Olinda, a sea of people and love for expression, music, art, and limitless freedom.
Image 8.
Visiting Manaus and smelling the presence of wild Amazonian creatures lurking with every careless step.
My father bravely stepping out of the tent with only a belt in hand when a wild feline approached us in the night.
His elegant and cautious stride stole our breath.
Image 9.
Returning to Venezuela and realizing I could no longer live there.
My dreams, my safety, couldn’t be guaranteed by the country that gave me life.
Now I carried a new title: High-Caliber Immigrant.
My resilience and my desire to conquer the world were intact.
As my father says, “Holding onto the beard of the future.”
I felt the energy of Celtic lands embracing me as a second home.
Ireland was now the destination where I would pursue new dreams,
where I would learn that we are the most valuable workforce—
not only for our talents but for our warmth and resistance to anything life throws at us.
Image 10.
Traveling the world alone.
Getting to know myself far from home.
Building a safe space for myself.
Battling endless migratory stories.
Falling in love and being disappointed.
Loving and letting go.
Creating friendships and watching them leave.
Creating art without pause.
Getting up over and over again—until finally managing to make a living doing something I love.
That sweet memory of struggle and living without regret.
Thank you for walking with me through this journey of memories that bring me joy
and a gentle touch of melancholy.