A project about the feeling of wanting a home that was never there to begin with. I researched old photographs that I had never seen before from my parents, to see how they experienced their youth and life with, and without me. Since I don’t remember a lot about my early life, I wanted to make an ode to my deceased parents and grieve the life that could have been. The original photos are printed on mesh fabric, evoking the transparency of curtains—a symbol of home. These images were taken in the woods near my childhood house, a place rich with memories, where I also filmed a video that ties in with the photos. I then combined the scans of these images with hand-crafted typography that reads “death is inevitable,” a reflection on loss and the journey towards acceptance.
Fragments (2025)
Made in visual code
Some memories are vivid — too vivid — bursting back into my mind in full color, with sharp sounds, familiar scents, and feelings that still sting. But others are foggy, distant, unreachable. Why are some locked away, hidden behind doors I can't open? What was so painful, so important, that my mind chose to erase it — or protect me from it? And what if I’ve forgotten something crucial? What moments shaped me that I can no longer see? Sometimes, memory feels like a trick — like my brain rearranging the puzzle pieces each time I look. I hold onto the ones I can, but even those shift over time, softened or sharpened by feeling. And I wonder: am I remembering, or am I imagining the past I want to believe in? What are memories, and why do they have such a powerful hold on us?
Some memories are vivid — too vivid — bursting back into my mind in full color, with sharp sounds, familiar scents, and feelings that still sting. But others are foggy, distant, unreachable. Why are some locked away, hidden behind doors I can't open? What was so painful, so important, that my mind chose to erase it — or protect me from it? And what if I’ve forgotten something crucial? What moments shaped me that I can no longer see? Sometimes, memory feels like a trick — like my brain rearranging the puzzle pieces each time I look. I hold onto the ones I can, but even those shift over time, softened or sharpened by feeling. And I wonder: am I remembering, or am I imagining the past I want to believe in? What are memories, and why do they have such a powerful hold on us?