From the series “Memories paper”; oil and pencil on paper; 30 x 21 cm.
My father, when young, was fond of photography. He loved to develop the images on his own. A rudimentary darkroom was set up in a closet, where he experienced the effects of developing baths on the portraits of his children. The pictures are still part of the baggage of memories of my family. Their appeal lies in the irregularities, in the imperfections, in the grains of dust that soiled the film, in the overexposure burning the edges and merging all the objects in an indistinct white light. I like to think that the paper possesses its own selective memory, which unveils some elements of the image while hides or removes others, staining only parts of the scene, while the rest is left in the second floor, in black and white. Or I like to think that the fading paper misses parts of that memory, and sometimes what remains seems not to be the most important thing.
November 6, 1997
November 14, 2011
childhood, family, holidays, house, memories, memory, mother, overexposure, photography, son