A seashell is pressed against a womb; does the unborn child hear the sea? Listening to a conch embraces our mind. We understand that the ocean resonates from a distance, from its body of water into ours, as if clasping our inner child by the ear. The ghost of a sea is transmuted into the shell’s body, carrying the memory of the one holding it. My Caribbean beach lives inside the shell that I took with me, deceived into a life of sheltered objects.

The installation treats each object as a verbalized vessel of memory, inviting bodily activation through everyday objects imbued with value. It asks which memories our objects transport and where they are stored as time slips like sand between our hands.

Seashells serve as universal structures for memory: each holds an audio recording of a Cuban migrant reciting a childhood poem. A black screen displays a subtitle with my translation of José Martí’s “Los Zapaticos de Rosa,” linking visual and literal absence to poetic presence. Through sound and texture, the work evokes history’s spirals, suggesting we grow like shells; different yet the same.

Hosting the voices and memories of Sandra, Mario, Wendy, Belkys, Marilyn, Lily, Abel, Iris, Ana, Alain, Melanie, Judith, Anabel.