Based in a light-flooded third floor studio on a residential street in Navarte, Mexico City, artist Camila Gb inhabits a collaborative space consecrated to chromatic and textural experimentation. The room is populated with encyclopedia clippings of contorted torsos, whereas rocks of all shapes and sizes are stacked on shelves in thoughtful formations and small scale drawings are juxtaposed by sprawling paintings on canvas. There are cats; they amble around the studio perching on chairs, pondering the tangled pile of diamond-studded lingerie that the artist is gathering for her upcoming residency with Nave in Ecuador. The expansive windows that stretch from floor to ceiling frame the disorder of the sun-dappled city that seems to seamlessly imprint onto canvases and worktops in the form of abstract, colourful chaos. Camila and her work are terrible roommates; they are simultaneously infatuated with and enraged by each other, a relationship with a default dynamic of destruction. Her days are spent pulling from shelves laden with weathered philosophy books, burning underwear for sculptures, melding metals into wearable art forms and scrolling through poetry on twitter. Daytime is eclipsed by nightfall and Camila surrenders to slumber; unshowered, covered in flecks of paint with burnt fingernails, the somewhat-soothing tones of philosopher Enrique Dussel’s lectures still playing in the background. Camila disrupts order with chaos, and answers questions with more questions, yet somehow, amongst the mess, there is clarity.
