My Hands. My Mother’s.

They say memory is a silly dog – you throw a stick to it but it brings back something else. Memories are fragile, sometimes illogical, incoherent, irrevocably incomplete. Yet now, of all that city, I remember only a woman I casually met. There are shadows that surround me, daughter shadows of rigid furniture. They haunt me here in the sun, but they are people. Using these memories is the only way to finish a conversation between two people who will never speak again.

We explore the capacity of objects to recall certain situations. Somehow living is to be other. Seeing is being distant and seeing clearly is to stop. Definitely, to analyse is to be a foreigner. It is as if I found an old portrait, of me, undoubtedly, with a different stature, unknown features, but indisputably mine, dreadfully me. Life is as if we were beaten with it. We will for sure meet again at some party.