After a summer outside





They live in the window of my studio for now.





In the Periphery










Memories of my grandmother, part 2


Here is part of the process of the keys.

IMG_6285Some of her keys, nobody knows what they once opened.


IMG_6292First test: concrete.

IMG_6299Result: a fossilised feeling, time has stopped.

IMG_6320Second test: molds for wax casting.


IMG_6344Ghost keys stuck in concrete.

IMG_6384Saved in jars the keys loose their function even more.


Memories of my grandmother: day 4

I remember my grandmother’s hands among the roses. She loved the white roses in her tiny garden. They were a gift from her mother. When she moved away from that house she brought clippings of the rose bush with her. Those hands did so many things. I see them flicking a pen while marking a script, brushing oil onto the lamb roast, holding surely around the steering wheel during one of out long drives and killing that potentially poisonous sprider in Spain that she always regretted afterwards. I see them grow curiously old, the skin getting softer, thinner and more transparent. My uncle, who was with her when she died said that at the end she couldn’t speak at all, except for the way she held his hand. “Imagine that”, he said “that the most important things you can say to someone, you can say just by holding their hand.”


Fragment 6: Her kind of rose, it even smells right.


A tiny house in a big world.


Old road overgrown with moss.


New road with thistles.

Memories of my grandmother: day 0

You are the same house, the same door. You are probably the same birch trees, all grown up. But you surround a meadow now, not a neatly cut lawn. In some places you can still hear the gravel creak beneeth the grass where we used to play mini golf. But you trees, you house and door with peeling paint, you saw her here. You saw me too. Maybe I look older now and these memories will die with me, but I remember you.

During two weeks my mom and I will follow in my grandmother’s footsteps as we walk from the village where she was born, to the village where she died. Along the way, in this landscape of hers, I will collect fragments that remind me of her and document it here. This is day 0, we are now in Stugun where she was born. Time to sleep, tomorrow we start walking.


The way down to the river, overgrown by flowers.


Nobody lives here now, but someone cared enough to fix the roof.


One of these layers must have been painted by her.


Peeking through the key hole.


The first fragment collected.