Almost 10 years ago I left my country for Sweden. And in that process something of myself was lost. A rift had formed between the memories and the self I had known in Mexico, and the me that found herself living in this new and unfamiliar place. I had changed, as had my artistic practice. What had begun as vessels had slowly morphed into something I eventually identified as architectural. At first I couldn’t make sense of what I was making, where this new expression came from – until the first time I returned to Mexico. It came to me in the taxi on the way from the airport. Through the cars’ side windows the suburbs of Mexico City rushed past us like concrete ghosts. Then, as the taxi came to a halt in one of the inevitable afternoon traffic jams, I started noticing the details. I noticed the black whirl of wires running between the houses, the half painted walls, the partially tiled roofs, the clumsily applied mortar leaving gaps between the bricks. This was what I had been creating, or unconsciously recreating, in my art. I saw now what had been lost. A part of me belonged to those buildings. It had known itself within their walls and oriented itself around the spaces between them. When I moved to Sweden that part of me had remained in Mexico. A connection had been broken. It was as if my body had been trying to construct something to reattach itself to. And this is what I’m still trying to do. My work is about the search for a new set of structures, an architecture that can help bridge the broken connection between disjointed memories, and within which I can attempt to create a new sense of self and belonging.