featured in As Above, So Below

Alone in the house in which I grew up 

The house in which I grew up is not small. It is beautiful and has nooks, hidden rooms, windows that swing out wide open, and terraces to hang up the laundry. There is a big garden, a lot of space to play on a hot summer day with all of the cousins, to run down the yard and hide between trees. It was my nonna, my father's mother, who built it. After her husband’s early passing, she intended to make his dream a reality. She wanted to create a space where the whole family could live together. Once completed, life started to unfold within its walls. 

A house in its essence represents the family itself. It is the earth for roots to spread, the nest to grow, and the space to expand. And a house should be full of noise, of aunties gossiping and music playing, of dogs barking and children laughing. When the house is silent, it means that the family is not working as it should. 

My parents got divorced when I was six.  

Twenty years later, my father still lives by himself in the house in which I grew up.    

When I come to visit, white walls scream of memories I was never a part of. By projecting archival images onto the walls of the house and then re-photographing them – human presence is brought back into the picture. A space that is inhabited solely by traces becomes the stage where old memories get a second chance.