Dora Perini

Dora Perini (b. 1995) is an Italian multidisciplinary artist based in London. She has been shaped by pieces in tension gleaned through a delocalized upbringing between NYC, Vicenza Italy, Yellow Springs Ohio, Rome, Milan and London. These diverse surroundings have solicited questions of radical care, body politics, food consumption and materic interpretations. She has been in a structural and intimate conversation with abject bodies, unfolding explicitly political urgencies and counterintuitive narrations: intrinsic engines of her image production.

Informed by eco-feminist theory, which activation emerges in her works, She revisits the potential of taboos through surreal speculative fiction exploring the fragility of containers and of the contained, the potentiality of transient spaces, positions, fixations and digestions.

The abject is the missed fit, the unacceptable and undesired, sometimes the excess in its opulence, or the excess in its unapologetic unsustainable space-time consumption. 

I build my practice on the beaches of this island-postcard-word and dip my making in milky bleached alchemic waters. The process is soupy, sometimes salty. The things making it through the storm of being born are often great and questionable. Likely overwhelmed and overwhelming, but they exist to resist, right there, for all the nitting and the stirring and the slipping and the ______. 

The thing, the fat lady, the sculpture, the drawing, the thing of the thing, the all-made, the found things, the sticky paintings for the sticky living rooms, the digested things among the undigested rules, the stopping (,) the performing, the mixing, the baking, the burning, the scar, the tissue, the left over crusts, the sugar coating, the blended regurgitation. The things. They come together in a constellation of uncomfortable shiny, hinting at a story that is being told all around, my body, their body, our bodies, swallowed between head and heart, on volcanic chests, remembering that music. And I with the things, become real by faith, really real right really there, occupying the space in high demand layering, convulsively shamelessly conscious, with all the dripping feelings, with all the nasty love, with all the tumbling ego, with all the ass, obstructing views with more views. Therefore, the things viewed here, and I, mothered by the same, finally, are, excessively precisely lovingly abject, beings against all odds.