I can talk about all of this while the laundry machine washes the clothes behind me.

How great artists are! Their hands, their canvas, their studios, their plinths, their works of art… Artists are big. I, on the other hand, feel like a tiny human being. I do not remember if this is something I have always felt or if it is something that grew, like fungi, little by little. I am interested in feeling the sun directly over my face, seeing a patch of wild grass, following the outline of a cloud with my finger, carrying an umbrella on a rainy day while the moon lights my way home.

I can say that I am interested, going to the essence of things, in feeling loved by everything that surrounds me.

I have many artist friends but none of them are interested in going to see art exhibitions. The truth is that I do not judge them. Most of the shows I saw, and I clarify, the ones I saw, which are not all, but a handful, in these last few months were boring. I felt they were bigger than me, a piece of synthetic grass, a blinding white cloud, a meteorological phenomenon surrounded by sponsors. It could be that, due to my own inexperience, I chose all the bad shows and missed all the good shows.

The truth is that I could, then, list all those shows, one by one, below. But that would mean losing the rest of the characters I have available in something as big, as great, as speaking badly of others. I do not want anything here.

That is why I went with my mother to see that show at the Ruth Benzacar, which is an art gallery located in the Villa Crespo neighborhood, a small town in the City of Buenos Aires, last April. I went there with my mom not only because I feel loved when I am close to her, close to my mother, but also because she does enjoy the greatness of the art exhibitions. And I I like to see my mother being happy. My mom is happy surrounded by white walls, white floors, white ceilings, white artwork. Maybe she feels this way, comfortable surrounded by all that white because she comes from a generation of women who spent a lot of time worrying about the hygiene of her home. I do not know, I need to ask her one of these days.

I, on the other hand, despite being her daughter, am bored with white. It does not only bore me, but annoys me. It bothers me that white is a multiplier color, a color that makes everything bigger. White is like a big mouth that swallows everything it touches. It does not let you see. I feel the world already has too much stuff. I feel that the world that I like, as I already mentioned, is small. That is why, and here I am getting to the point of all this, I was happy, I was surprised, I could not believe it, you will not be able to believe it, when I saw Liliana Porter's exhibition in that gallery. All miniatures. All little plastic, wooden, human figures smaller than my fingers, in fact, about half the height of my thumb. That is how big they were. They were all doing little things, things that mother, Liliana, I, or ever you could do: they were cutting the grass, watering it, sitting, standing, walking, drawing, painting, knitting, using axes, rakes. Sometimes they were alone. Other times accompanied by objects and animals. Sometimes they were trapped inside a frame. Other times they were free running, dancing, moving all over the place.

It was impossible to see them all at the same time. They required my full attention. They wanted me to pay attention, a very specific and individualized type of attention. I needed my eyes to be focused, my gaze to be present. They made me think of those dishes that chefs who have Michelin stars make, that chefs that are on those cooking shows that my son watches on TV in the afternoons after school. Life, the flavor of life, was there, concentrated, available for your gaze, all together in one bite.

I remember many works, but above all, one, that took me to a moment, to that moment, the moment when I thought about God. It was a drawing in which there was a little person surrounded by many paths, trapped on a blue checkered background. I felt like God: I greeted her, I looked at her, I examined her, I gave her all my attention. But at the exact same time, I felt small, tiny, feeling God's gaze all over me. Maybe we are nothing more than that, a game of gazes, my gaze, your gaze. My gaze, your gaze.

I felt comfortable among those little people. I felt like I was visiting their world and that their world was beautiful, sad and colorful. Seeing their world, I was able to see mine.

What I liked the most was feeling that we could all fit in this world. My mom was happy, focused, amazed. I was happy, focused, amazed. Maybe all this, all these a bit more than 800 words, just to say that Liliana Porter, my mother, who is also called Liliana, and I like to feel loved. And art, for a little while, gave us that: all its love.