See, this is my blood (or the Passion according to D.N.N.)

Abstract

One of David Nebreda's photographic self-portraits shows us his Face covered with excrement. His body is out of the way, only the head appears, which seems to emerge from a mass of faeces arranged in front of it. None of the features of his face are visible: hardly any hair is visible, an ear, a half-open slit that could be a mouth, a mute outline of a scream - but his eyes disappear completely under the thick layer of matter that smears them. A face without a look, which has been photographed blindly, the face of a man who cannot look at himself, who prefers, rather than hold his own gaze, to be transformed into a pile of excrement. Where does it come from that, overcoming my nausea, I turn to this disfigured face? Why do I have the impression that this face without eyes, this face-disappearing face, looks at me, and that everything that Nebreda does, his photos, his drawings, his writings, concerns me intimately, concerns me deeply - that all this concerns/looks at us?