"KaBö is a multidimensional trans non-binary artist—a fluid spirit who gathers fragments of the world to reshape them into living cosmologies".
"I create from the place where myth and memory meet—a threshold between worlds"
A question arrived on an ordinay day.
“what other life would you live?”
Dancer, I answered
Before the Word faded, I knew:
Even with music in my bones and light on my limbs,
my hads would ache for pigment, my silence would dream in color.
So a dancer I´d be, dreaming of a painter.
Or a painter, Moving like a dancer.
They become altars, Installations. Drawings
What someone else calls trash or gross,
I call a door.
Nature doesn¨t waste.
Neither do I.
I am fascinated by the things nobody sees.
So I look closer. Then i make them seen.
I walk into places the world forgot.
Walls Split open. Floors that part like curtains to make entrances for shadows.
Abandoned hotels, churches, damage spaces that has stopped apologizing.
I photograph their silence.
Then I introduce a shadow.
Not a ghost. A presence.
Playful. Sacred. Waiting.
It is our collective shadow-
The part of us we left behind in the wreckage.
And somehow, in these ruins,
The shadow gives light.
It kneels in the broken doorway and waits for something to be reborn.
Analogue and digital, hand and machine- I stitch hope into the cracks.
These are The Last Shadows:
Not endings, but the pause before the next beginning.
When I Paint, I dress like I’am going somewhere sacred.
When I dance, the clothes move first- then me.
Its a ritual:
To create while also being the creation.
Then Seattle, came, and with it, theater.
I learned to build worlds form Wood, Weld light into corners. Stich costumes, Paint scenery.
My pallette grew teeth and shadows.
Thirty years of red altars.
A child´s instict, a lifetime´s ritual.
Every other week: unmake, remake, find one more red object.
Not just beauty, a way to listen.
The altar prays, and creation answers.
Now every act I make- even alone in my studio -feels like a performance waiting for a stage.
The curtain is just invisible.
Asked which dream I´d borrow, I said dance.
Then whispered: but a dance would miss the brush.
So I start here- painting with my feet, dancing with hands.
Since I was Young, i have made altars-installations before I knew the Word.
Always red: the pulse under skin, the first note of fire.
Every other week, a new arrangement.
Thirty years of findin, placing, finding agian.
Not decor, Not habit.
Astehtic, yes-but also a way to listen.
The altar prays, and creation anwers.
Then inspiration walks in through the color of blood and earth