Once upon a time there was a woman. She had done it hundreds of times before, so it was no different when she tapped the front window and looked through a small crack. He was sitting on the middle cushion of the couch as always. This time, however, she felt the urge to do something about it. “Shall I keep up your garden or come and clean the house once a week, she asked him. She talked and he sat. The woman grabbed her book. Outside, dark clouds gathered. It started to rain softly. “Was it really possible to destroy someone’s life by giving them a bath and cleaning their house?” the woman read. Lightning struck.

My father says he’s all right like this. He has reduced the entire universe to a cushion, sofa and table. A well-arranged small world. Dad sits on his throne like a king. Apart from the details, everything always looks the same. The door barely opens, days pass by.

In order not to affect his autonomy, I started photographing my dad from the same point of view and thereby limiting my photographic input to a minimum. Photographing my father became a way to investigate my own history. I need him to understand my own life.