Like an embroidered lace, built on a mesh from which one never ceases to pull the thread, Claudia Huidobro's work calls for that breast that we cannot see. Not the one of pin-ups, objects of male fantasies that she hijacks by tearing them into collages with constructivist inflections, but rather the one that persists when the body unfolds outside the frame. Elsewhere, each limb becomes a motif. A self-portrait in hollow will be drawn in this bottomless frame.
The artist's fragile and haunted world is populated by bits of legs that are tripped over, mounds of bodies and scattered debris. One is reminded of Hans Bellmer's photographs and his dolls mounted on legs, but also of those that Guy Bourdin leaves lying around on the floor, at random in hushed interiors. Except that in Claudia Huidobro's work, strangeness no longer appears through the representation of the image, but through the interventions she makes on it.