The Modlins came into my life 10 years ago. I happened to find their documents and photographs thrown to the sidewalk in a street in Madrid. They had just died and their lives were shamelessly exposed to the peasant. Misunderstood artists, the Modins were fame- obsessed and they died convinced that their art would only be recognized over time. In that way, I, a stranger, became the only possible vehicle for them to achieve their dream, some dead’s dream.
My research made me obsessively reconstruct their lives. With the techniques of an inexperienced detective, but with an infinite willpower, from small unconnected clues I filled in the impossible gaps their images left. The odyssey of these years living other people’s lives put me in contact with human misery, how unable we are of bearing our lightness and, overall, I suffered the wounds of those who, driven by ambition, betray friendship to achieve fame.
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