Floricia often kept to herself. Sometimes, I would have to look for her behind the other women. She would also often try to hide part of her face behind a long, thick strand of grey hair.

 

She was already elderly and had almost stopped working in recent years.

 

What I remember most about her is her smile. Always shy and sincere. A quiet, gentle woman, calm and smiling.

 

We did not speak the same language. Between us, there were very few words. But over the years, a bond gradually grew: smiles, gestures, laughter and little surprises.

 

Her masks, however, are anything but discreet.

 

They are immediately recognisable. Their weaving, seemingly simple in appearance, was uniquely hers, and disappeared with her, as Floricia has passed away.

 

Her work is both restrained and powerful. But it is also the gaze that sets her masks apart.

 

Eyes that seem to narrow, as if to see us more clearly.

 

This gaze is all the more singular because Floricia herself was blind in one eye.

She always concealed it behind that long strand of hair, and a slightly shy smile.

 

These masks move me deeply. They carry something of her: her discretion, her mystery and, paradoxically, an extraordinarily strong presence.

 

Her daughter, Lidia, told me that her mother had passed away because someone had cast a spell on her.

 

I do not know what took her from us. I like to think that, after working for so long with the spirits that accompanied and guided her work, it was simply time for her to join them.

 

Today, what remains are her masks, witnesses to a unique artistic practice.

 

And that gaze.

Floricia’s gaze.