Oscillating between past and present, “Stigma” is a black and white photographic series black that interconnects lonely souls with raw surfaces. discoloring the color of the scenes, the compositions materialize experiences of isolation, fear and rupture. Playing with light and shadow, the subjects are represented as transitory memories, Conjuring narratives between their immaterial and physical presence. from the dark, corporeal figures emerge hidden and blurred, forming portraits that impose vulnerability and invoke interpretation. Emphasizing those marginalized by society, beings both young and old confront life and mortality through protective amulets, taking refuge in spirituality. Through images that include the representation of a child holding a dove and a woman playing with a necklace of a cross, Luna it emphasizes the intimacies of spirituality and the faith that many place in a guardian to protect them from the complexities of existence. Fusing the energy of places, animals and people with his own, the camera allows him an alibi to investigate inside her. Submitting to a process similar to a personal revelation, as an affective relationship was extinguished, this work was reborn. Dirty horses, lost dogs and nauseating pigeons reinforce the feeling that the photographer experienced at the moment of capturing the images. Keeping opposing forces deeply balanced, the ghostly presences echo the abstraction of the painting: shadows shield facial expressions, garbled silhouettes mingle with a nebula of apparitions, and distorted creatures are obscured by moving grain becoming almost hallucinogenic. Carefully orchestrated, the textures encompass broken mirrors, rising flames, and turbulent winds, cementing the ephemerality embedded in existence. The result is a hybrid between intimate observation and high tension, in which the audience is invited to decipher a language of poetic sensations that avoid a fixed meaning. Photography by Joaquín Luna. Text by Vanessa Murrell. Graphic Design by Elige Chose. Poem by Irene de la Fàbrica.

Dibujé sus rostros descalzos alimenté con mis dedos sus bocas hambrientas de salvación, La blasfemia se hizo carne. De sus manos vacías exprimí la sangre de sus clavos, sembré sus cuerpos estériles. Y en las huecas cuencas de sus ojos, detuve el tiempo y el color. Calaveras de polvo y cemento, la cruz colgando en su pecho. Viejas marionetas en calles desiertas pidiéndome auxilio a oscuras, sin voz ni aliento. Ansiedad. Angustia. La ciudad que oprime al hombre que enmudece y vive y muere dos veces a través de mi espejo.