Some theories claim that singing develops before speaking, that the first sounds made by the human voice had more to do with onomatopoeia than with meaning. Onomatopoeia is also how we communicate with animals: through listening, imitation and touch. From the cries and whistles of shepherds to the eclogues of pastoral literature, the countryside has always been a refuge for lyricism, for that which is not so much incommunicable as simply incompatible with the logocentric communication system demanded by city life.

For Laura Morales, this project began to take shape during lockdown, a brief parenthesis when the fragility of the city’s dominance over the countryside became more apparent than ever. After just a couple of weeks, nature exhaled, and deer were seen in Matadepera. Three years later, Laura decided she wanted to become a shepherdess. And here she is, giving body to a transhumance that turns the audience into her flock and the streets of Terrassa into grazing paths. Just as so many meadows have been devoured by roads and urban sprawl, this encounter doesn’t occur in a rural setting, but takes over the space of the city. The countryside isn’t somewhere else. It is us who are in the place where the countryside was before.

And then there’s love. Like the shepherds of the eclogues, Laura sings of love. Love that never comes. Love that is never whole because something is always missing. With her transhumance, Laura seeks a love so full it might burst her heart into a thousand pieces. Does this love exist? Or is it just a fleeting shadow? In the meantime, she has the love of her flock.

Ser pastora is presented in collaboration with El Corralito, which for years has supported creators willing to work experimentally, without needing to have all the outcomes in advance.