End of the technical check
Tobacco: meeting again for the first time
Slices of Red
Loss of mystery
Cut, so we bleed the same shade of red
AI as skin, words as bodies
What is it like to be stuck in a photograph
On failure & completion
Obliteration of authorship
Roots or Routes?
Photography as a collaborative action
The matches spilled by the front door, the morning he promised to leave his wife for my grandmother.
When my tongue touched the palate the word
collapsed. Welcomed with applause and joy, as she finally spoke.
I dreamt of his death, mistaking it for my own.
I swallowed my tongue and choked. Lost my breath and opened my eyes only when I heard my name to understand I have died a little.
There were a lot of us, but she approached me. Took of her necklace put it on my chest and said that I need it more.
He would slaughter the sheep but first cut their tongues off. Later on they all will be born without voices.
The 30th day is when the soul leaves. She moved her hand toward me and I stayed still, as she disappeared from the bar.
She dreamt of my grandad, he was young and strong – waving at her by the highway. I used to always imagine her memories in black and white, rarely in sepia.
Coming back from the sea side, my auntie and uncle got into a car crash. The truck and watermelons were squashed and they were without a scar.