10 imagesIt is so obvious now but twenty years ago it wasn’t. One early morning in the summer of 1996 my mom left us while we were sleeping. She dropped a note to me saying she hadn’t been able to go on like that anymore, and she would call soon. Twenty years from then I’m still waiting for her call. On that early summer morning mom took away all her belongings plus our family albums as if she wanted to rob us not only of our future with her but also of our past. She even took the pictures of my dog, the only true friend of my gloomy childhood. I was very angry at mom. Because she left, because she didn’t call, because she took away our common memories. Initially I felt guilty for not being a child good enough so she had to go away from me. With years passing I realized that I shouldn’t feel responsible for her decision. Then it came to me that it might have been mom’s right to choose her own future and I shouldn’t be harsh with her, except for not keeping the promise to call. And even that was forgiven at the end. But my anger shifted from her to the photos she had taken, and in a strange twist of mind, to photography in general. These were hard years, I had to provide for our living with my dad out of job and crashed by the fate he presumed unfair and thus even bitterer. I stayed away of photography but my attraction towards it had been swelling in my sub consciousness like water current stopped by a dam wall deliberately put to prevent me from suffering. Until one day I accidentally came across a collective photo exhibition and realized that photography can actually heal by telling stories, by showing visions, by inspiring people. The wall in my mind toppled down and since then I take pictures of people I meet, of light I see, of darkness I sense, of doubt I feel, of silence I here. This body of work reveals the multifaceted reflections of everydayness as seen and perceived by me while going through the routine of living. Because this is my way.
12 imagesNews of explosions, flooding, earthquakes, air pollution, temperature records, war, terrorist attacks keep pouring from the TV screen and make me feel horrified, stupefied, confused and sorrowful. My mind acts as a membrane receiving and filtering the TV images, and reflecting them back to the screen distorted to the point of no recognition as if seen through tears. Instead of making snapshots of myself displaying my feelings of horror and dismay as a result of reality dominated by violence and misfortune, I take out-of-focus portraits of TV anchorpersons, commentators and politicians deprived of personal features and endowed with the universal meaning reflecting their inability to explain and justify what happens. In this way my state of mind is transferred to the photos and they become a blurred amalgam of alien colors and forms that convey my utter perplexity in understanding the world around me.
12 imagesIt’s always like that. When the snow starts falling the memories keep flowing. I watch the kids joyfully playing just like I did back there, in the place called childhood. In that place my feet are soaking wet and I’m sliding down the hill on a piece of nylon given to me by Grandma. Slidings of memory. I take pictures in the present but the images are those of the past, of that place called childhood where snow is just an emulation of crystal-white nostalgia. Childhood is the place where memories are snow.
12 imagesWe survived. Some of us. Not so many. Many more perished. No electricity, no running water, no cellphones or internet, nothing of what we were so used to. Only dead bodies around and a few alive but surely not for long. There was a sudden quake, people screaming and windows shattering, and then came the dust. Some say it was a nuclear war, others say it was a clash with a giant asteroid. A so called Impact event. We are not sure what actually happened, just feel how hard it is to breathe and near impossible to see. Things are visible only at a short distance, a couple of meters away. And now and then tremors can be sensed under our feet. It’s scary. It’s hopeless. I’m lost, I’m frightened to death, I can’t compose myself. The only way for me to cope with all these is to make pictures of the world around. At least this is something that can stay after us and can be found some day, by someone. Anyone. And I will keep taking pictures until my batteries get completely drained. They will not last long so I should be very careful what to photograph although it is not sure if anything can be discerned on the pictures through all the dust around. But I will take them anyway in a hope to preserve shreds of our lost existence. Because we will not be here long but the dust is here to stay.