Answers became poems:


The function of the memory is not only to recall, reconstitute or reconcile the past but also to construct and represent the present.

Moving images are moulded to the shape of absent or imaginary beings, signalling from elsewhere in time and space.

The practice is not to systematise or to objectify memory, but to find a physical expression.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Questions became poems:

 

How does the architecture serve as a narrative of a memory?

How do the fragments of a place hold memories?

How can I create absence and evoke a sense of memory?

How to express vulnerability and temporality?

How to show the loop of transformation and transition?

How can I make the memory of a place relatable?

Where is the place for creation?

What am I creating, a space or a mise-en-scene?

How big is the installation?

Where do I want to put the viewer?

How can it be open-ended and fragmented, like memory itself?

What are the materials?

How can I materialise the memory of a place?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Everything started with a question.

                               What is the feeling of a space, a place, an environment?


And the question created other questions...

                               What creates this sensation?

                               light?

                               colors?

                               sound?

                               images?

                               fragments?

                               forms?

                               people?

                               History?

                               memories?

It went further and deeper...

                               What do I usually feel in places?

                               missing?

                               nostalgia?

                               loss?

                               belonging?

                               presence?

                               absence?

 

Then I figured out something...

                               I considered how dwellings are places

                               we tend to project with a sense of

                               stability, but are often more

                               vulnerable and temporal than 

                               we would like to think.


Then I asked myself:

                               How do I remember things?

                               I remember something when I left it behind.

                               When I no longer exist there, it fades.

                               But I still carry the memory of it with me. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everything started with a poem:

                            

This room, how well I know it.

Now they’re renting it and the one next to it as offices.

The whole house has become an office building for agents, businessmen, companies.

This room, how familiar it is.
The couch was here, near the door,
a Turkish carpet in front of it.
Close by, the shelf with two yellow vases.
On the right—no, opposite—a wardrobe with a mirror.
In the middle of the table where he wrote,
and the three big wicker chairs.
Beside the window, the bed
where we made love so many times.
They must still be around somewhere, those old things.
Beside the window, the bed;
The afternoon sun used to touch half of it.

. . . One afternoon at four o’clock, we separated
for a week only. . . And then—
that week became forever.

Constantine P. Cavafy 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I tried to write down some answers to my questions:


I want to put the viewers inside the memory of a place.

I want to project the image or fragments of a place.

I want to work with transparent/ translucent materials. (Ambiguity of memory)

I want to work in different layers. (Layers of memory and time)

I want to show the passage of time through light. (Transitory)

I want to work with a material with vanishing property. (The ephemeral nature of places and memory)