Muta

MUTA (MUTE/MOLT). A Nuptial Interrogation for a Waiting Body
by Like A Little Disaster

Have you come to contract visibility, or to elude from it—you who offer yourself behind a pane that both preserves and repels, you who are offered and withheld in the same optical gesture?
Do you declare yourself to exist as image or as residue, as presence or as deferred apparition, when the dust on the glass filters your face and returns it as distance, as halo, as a phenomenon that occurs only on the condition of not being touched?
Do you accept being seen without being reached, being promised without fulfillment, inhabiting this interstice between street and sanctuary, between vitrine and reliquary, where seeing coincides with the impossibility of entry?
Are you free, or does your freedom coincide with your exposure, with this immobility that simulates choice and instead institutes a function, a role, a posture that precedes any will?
Do you recognize in your dress the sign of a genealogy, or is it your very body that has become dress—a continuous surface, a ritual epidermis that no longer distinguishes between flesh and fabric?
To whom do you pledge fidelity, when the other is absent, deferred, perhaps impossible—when waiting is not oriented toward an arrival but constitutes itself as pure time, as duration without event?
Do you declare yourself alive, when your hands and face oscillate between the biological and the synthetic, between polymer and simulacrum, when your ontological status bifurcates in every gaze: woman, mannequin, automaton, relic, organism in decomposition?
Do you accept this undecidability as condition, as pact, as a negative sacrament in which identity is not fulfilled but suspended?
Have you ever assumed another form of existence, another incarnation, before now, or have you always been a threshold, always a display case, always a surface of projection?
Are you aware that your aura does not derive from an intact origin but from a loss—from an artificially produced irreproducibility, from a constructed distance, from a here-and-now that manifests only because it is separated, filtered, contaminated?
Do you accept marriage to mold, with spores that already colonize your time, inscribing upon your surface a nonhuman chronology—a biological calendar that dissolves promise into process, purity into proliferation?
Do you promise to receive these minor forms of life, to let yourself be inhabited, to become ecosystem, substrate, matter in transformation, relinquishing your integrity?
Do you recognize in your very deterioration a form of truth, a revelation that does not appear in the perfection of the dress but in its corruption, in its slow, inevitable rewriting?
Have you concealed anything that might gravely disturb conjugal life—if not the fact that there is no spouse, that the union is deferred, that the bond is partnerless, that the rite unfolds without reciprocity?
Do you accept this asymmetrical bond, this alliance with absence, this contract with a time that does not redeem but ?
Are you willing to be honored and consumed by the public gaze, to exist as a reproducible image and yet as an irreducible apparition, to oscillate between seriality and singularity, between display and epiphany?
Do you declare that your silence is not lack of speech but excess—saturation—a language that has withdrawn to make room for a vision that interrogates, unsettles, resists translation?
Are you, finally, willing not to be defined—to remain mute not as deprivation but as strategy, as suspension of meaning, as a radical opening to all possible nominations and to their simultaneous revocation?
And you, who look—have you come here to witness a union, or to recognize a fracture, to confirm an identity or to lose it, to cross the glass or to discover that the glass is what constitutes you?