“”Petrichor” is an hour and a half dedicated to those in mourning. Not for the happy bunch excited about brat summer, but the ones hiding from the sunlight to grieve. It starts and ends with fat drops of rain, plus one last bonus track I decided to add in to shake us off that bathroom floor and back into the matrix.” – Bubbola
ABOUT THE ARTIST:
Bubbola is a chocolate-eating, playlist-devouring, open-mouthed deep sleeper, trapped in a voluptuous meat prison covered in layers of denim, leather and tartan. She feeds on new isolationism and protein bars, while drawing and pixel pushing in her little apartment in Friedrichshain. She wants you to know that she hates describing herself therefore writing this was quite dreadful.
ABOUT THE PLAYLIST AND THE ARTWORK:
The shattering of the self as the by-product of the end of a romance: are compromises truly expected to be made in order to be loved? To what extent?
How small do we have to make ourselves to accommodate the other half?
How many corners do we have to smooth out?
When you like the lasagna sitting in your plate, you don’t ask for extra salt and you don’t send it for another round in the microwave.
When our core identity is picked at bit by bit, manipulated into oblivion, tweaked and squeezed until unrecognizable, it’s time to hit that bathroom floor – get in a good self-pitying cry – and hit the road.
Girlfriend – best friend – colleague – confidant – dick sucker – exhibitionist – porn actress – child bearer – meal prepper – future mother and someone’s daughter.
Quoting someone I look up to: she is me and I am her – siamese twins connected at the cunt.
Cry hard, write everything down, look at all the pictures, cling violently to the beauty of it all, no regrets, and go fuck yourself.
How small do we have to make ourselves to accommodate the other half?
How many corners do we have to smooth out?
When you like the lasagna sitting in your plate, you don’t ask for extra salt and you don’t send it for another round in the microwave.
When our core identity is picked at bit by bit, manipulated into oblivion, tweaked and squeezed until unrecognizable, it’s time to hit that bathroom floor – get in a good self-pitying cry – and hit the road.
Girlfriend – best friend – colleague – confidant – dick sucker – exhibitionist – porn actress – child bearer – meal prepper – future mother and someone’s daughter.
Quoting someone I look up to: she is me and I am her – siamese twins connected at the cunt.
Cry hard, write everything down, look at all the pictures, cling violently to the beauty of it all, no regrets, and go fuck yourself.
Who do you want to see next?
