Bodies

Bodies

Our bodies are also something we inherited. Their look, their strengths, their weaknesses. Their perception might change, transform us, or get transformed by us.

They are our best allies, shall we care for them, as much as we can. They are also the biggest chink of our capital.

My class[es] is living through my body. Not only because of its condition, shape, materiality. Mainly because of the way it presents itself, in infinite details. Details that may let my peers acknowledge me as such, and others, categorize me as some form of otherness. It's about the position, how it is monitored, in tension, seemingly relaxed, ordered, curated. About the shades of olive and brown, depending on the season, the dryness of some parts, the freedom of wrinkles to appear, this precise shape of a nail, these pieces of fabric too tight to be descent, this color too bright to be acceptable, these bumps too prominent and liquid to be there by choice and due to a certain awareness. Its sonic level, not controlled, nor controllable, loud enough to be happily exotified, quiet enough to be ignored at convenience. These separate features assembled together, harmoniously enough to fomenter curiosity, ambiguous enough to make rejection and fascination coexist. Too much and not enough at once.

For the ones in our condition, our body is our best ally. Our mind, our master, helps us monitor it. We must care for it, cherish the ones of our peers. This filled envelope is our working tool, the only tool we weren’t fully denied to possess.

It’s also a weapon, my chosen weapon. Tailored to fight, to always be ready. Sharp, flexible, because it needs to be as such. Just to pretend that I do actually have the choice, that fighting may change something, giving an illusion of absolute power, of fairness, an ability to react, to be a man just like another. It is a public language, a symbol of one’s condition.

Sharp, flexible, soft and metallic. As long as it is mine and mine only, it will do the job, my job. The moment it gets colonised, parasitised, then the story will change. From tool-weapon, it will temporarily be a tool-hut. And huts are too fragile. Outsiders just need to threaten to kick the door, and that’s sometimes already enough to force us to open it.

Let’s keep it a weapon, until we possess more that we don’t need it to protect itself anymore.

Biography: Aubane Berthommé Martinez is a Rotterdam-based cultural worker, embodying the roles of artist and curator, while also moving through writing, modelling and mentoring. Her practice unfolds through layered and adaptable formats, holding together artistic production, social engagement, and shared experience.

She is a very Mediterranean person, who grew up in the south of France within a multicultural family and environment. This grounding continues to inform how she moves through the Dutch cultural landscape, which she has been part of for over a decade.

Alongside her artistic work, she is actively involved in local initiatives rooted in solidarity, contributing through hosting and horeca work, regularly returning to bartending. Of working-class condition, she engages both privately and professionally with questions of labour, collectivity, and material realities, maintaining a strong connection to daily forms of labor.

Cooking is a central part of her life and relationships, approached as a love language and often integrated into her curatorial practice and the contexts she builds with collaborators, loved ones, and communities.

Like a cat, she finds her way across various contexts, anchoring her practice as much within institutional spaces as in alternative venues and community-based structures.

Image: Unsplash, downloaded (https://unsplash.com/photos/woman-in-black-and-white-dress-6zOo7tsjQjY) 24. 3. 2026.

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