Jakline does not speak readily about her work. (Jakline's work is not a deliberate act of self-expression) Her actions and artwork speak for her instead. She makes lace. One that stings, gets rusty and transmits tetanus. That is chiseled up by fullness and emptiness. Void as some devastated land, abandoned to the projection of our fears/anxieties. A sort of space, inside her iron and nickel cathedrals, where floats the echo of her revolt cried out in silence.