I have been delving into my own and others’ archives—stored in family trunks and cupboards—driven by a fascination with the torn, the moldy, the glued and re-glued, the missing pieces. I have unearthed an archaeology of scraps: photographs, diaries, political
pamphlets, diplomas, certificates, documents, notebooks, tapes, cassettes, records.
I realized that much of memory survives on paper, one of the most fragile of materials—easily consumed by insects, destroyed by water, warped by humidity, burned by fire, torn apart. Ink fades until it becomes unreadable; images blur until they dissolve into
shadows.
And yet, across the decades, here they are. Fragments of thousands of human lives.
These remains of unique moments raise questions: Can they awaken memory? Can they come together like pieces of a puzzle, becoming part of an artwork that integrates them and interacts with their meaning?
In most of my works, the support itself—the paper, the material, the surface—does not remain silent. It speaks, it converses with the image, and in that dialogue, it complements it.
The support and the image merge, inseparable, both sustaining and transforming each other.
