In the deep there are no roots, there is the uprooted.
_Hugo Mujica

Time passes differently in the small towns of southern Chile. It dilates and suspends. This, in addition to the temporal dislocation introduced by the pandemic, motivated the development of this auto-ethnographic research, developed in the territory of the domicile during a period of five months.

In different places in the backyard, unused areas, I distributed garments from each of the inhabitants of my house (Father, Mother, Brother, and myself), which remained in the same place for over a month. Once removed, I photographed the mark impressed on the grass programmatically until its disappearance. In the middle of the pandemic confinement, to print the mark of the inhabitants in their own backyard and expose it to its becoming until it is erased, is to point out the emptiness and uncertainty that crushed us. The action conjures up a ghost, like a photogram on the grass that reveals that something was lost. More than ever, life was concentrated within the confines of the house, while in the backyard the mark continuously transformed its image from within, turning the backyard into an ephemeral map of four islands.

Living in a town of such characteristics has turned me into someone who made a methodology out of waiting. Maybe the minimal initial gesture is the natural reaction to saturation and dislocated time. It may be that the only thing left for us to do is to propitiate an art of lasting and waiting.