After the death of a person, things and memory remain from him.
For a whole year I have been photographing in the room where Ba used to live. She died last summer and I had to sort out all of her things, many of which I didn't even know existed. I took portraits with objects I didn't understand, old sets, cracked plates and saucers, rusty nails, hammers, shabby coats or just dried flowers. At first I wanted to capture my interest and understand why a person needs so many things, why he surrounds himself with them, as if he himself becomes safer from more of them. Many people, generations Ba, who survived the war, famine, acquired deficiency syndrome. Things seemed to give confidence and security for any occasion in life. They were soothing. How many times have I seen Ba go through bed linens or synthetic dresses for special occasions, the value of which only she saw. The Ba kept them not in order to sort through the memory, although, of course, there were such. But most - as they say - were postponed for a rainy day.
Making portraits, I understood why I needed all this. I fixed myself in memory. Therefore, my visual language is rather poor and monotonous - portraits. I did them even with some kind of manic addiction, without analyzing and not investing in this process any initial goal or idea. I wanted to fix myself ... for memory. So that no one will forget me when my room becomes empty.
The Ba lived for things, and I transform these things into memory. I want to shout that I exist, even when I disappear without a trace, like Ba ...