The perspective of quitting, quitting everything, swelled in the kitchen corner. The swelling occurred in proportion to the emptying of the uterus and, with it, the depletion of her spirit. She felt… t r a p p e d… I’M JOKING!! JK!! JK! Did it seem a woman artist would get an exhibition text about kitchen, the burden of labor and uterine metaphors? “Spirit” getting depleted in the first paragraph?… Some people truly deserve to get sucked into a vacuum. Not you, dear reader! But s o m e p e o p l e…

This is a joke because my painter friend has undergone some immersion therapy on subjects such as domesticity, the sort of thing attached to painteresses (not by choice, courtesy of life) over the course of her painting years. This path she’s been tracing is not too long (she is young) but it is sturdy, much like the proverbial baggage her work carries but that she hopes won’t disturb others. Maybe now she doesn’t care whether it disturbs others — this is what I want for her, too: to add wheels and a leash on the baggage, so it slides around effortlessly.

But she knows better than to antagonize… Anybody, really. She is sensible and reasonable in everything except her paintings, which are ill… Sick with old-timey hysteria. Unhinged like Glenn Close’s character Alex Forrest in Fatal Attraction or Nicky in Obsession and every other Crazy Lady in a thriller. Which is to say, perfectly ordinary until becoming infused with somebody else’s malaise or poison, and then depicted as insane, trapped by the conventions of what is expected from them. This is the appeal of Inês’s paintings and their baggage: they are unreasonable, unholy objects.

(Excerpt from the booklet text by Mariana Tilly)