Cobweb

I can call this artwork my self-portrait. Huge hands, like the ones of the character in Michel Gondry's “The Science of Sleep” movie, are sewn from pieces of thin cotton, trying to hold a small house through the pain. To be precise, it is a memory of the home from my childhood and youth, a place where my family still lives. A place where I no longer live. Although each year the image of the home becomes more transparent, simpler, still the network of the past, mixed with current news, calls, messages, is very strong and sticky. It's a lot of jabs, the wounds from which have got tired of healing, and the lines of destiny have got tired of dodging.

 

Too many people have now lost their home, rethinking its very meaning, rushing out to find another one, far away where it’s quiet. The reason for my escape was not the bombs. It was what preceded them. But the more I try to escape, the tighter the sticky web of the past is that holds me while I’m looking for answers. How do I reconcile myself to the place where everything hurts, wherever you poke it?