When the artist resorts to himself as an ideo-aesthetic substance, he postures a certain identity worldview. Such a vision can expose, without imitating, a completely romantic skein woven into fine strands of dead days on his way through. Then the sequel –that is, the artistic object– becomes the codex of, one could think strictly personal, experience.
However, in the work of Mabel Poblet, there are not such distinctions. She knows well to recognize an extension of her experiences in the bodies and faces of others. In the end happiness, pain, pleasure, nostalgia, failure are universal traits wielded by each one of us. Therefore, the so-called “self-referentiality” attributed to Mabel Poblet is diluted in the middle of the collective experience she finds on her way and recognizes on the time lived or the one to come.
The over-aesthetization of such human inquiries probably becomes the most eloquent of Poblet’s manners, a kind of stylized sadomasochism that embellishes every one of the challenges. So, why insist on revisiting what lacerates? Why sublimate it? Mabel understands that in every space of pain, of resignation and acceptance, there is a bit of beauty that lies in living (or surviving) the process. As there is also a bit of beauty in everything ugly, and vice versa; because there are no parts without their antagonists, the only able to ennoble it. Perhaps for this reason the small flowers that decorate the set almost imperceptibly are held on the surface by needles that pass through them, as circumstances that make up the day to day, in short: life.
One might wonder if human vulnerability is precisely the central theme in the artist’s work; how big or small we become in the face of tribulations. Certainly, the things of the past cannot harm us unless we cling to pain. Although I suppose that in the production of Mabel Poblet everything works as a strategy of self-recognition, because that is also us, or what remains.