Núria Rovira


02.06.22 - 04.06.22

photos and words by Núria Rovira

It all started with 4 silk cocoons. Before I realized it, they had become 4 threads. But I was wrong, they were 4 strings. 4 cello strings.


Unpinning out of the cocoons, taut across the room, the 4 silk lines awaited.

For what?

Maybe for a weavers shuttle to turn their solitary silk paths into textile, back and forth, a giant loom.

Maybe for a cellist’s bow to play them into song, back and forth, each line a note.

I started researching silkworms 3 years ago, but I had to leave them behind after the pandemic. When I revisited them this year, something funny had happened: time had tangled them with the 36 stitches of my knee surgery and the 4 strings of my childhood cello. This made no sense, these were separate stories, different characters, different worlds, with no consequential trails crossing between them. I’m not sure why, but I let them stay stuck together and listened into their conversation.