(working title)

Apart from the details, everything is always the same. And with every passing day the desire grows for the moment when life will reach the top, for the moment when the sluice gates open and life finally moves on. At the same time, I see that precisely that this repetitiveness, this enclosedness, this unchangingness is necessary, it protects me. On the few occasions I have left it, all the old ills return.

Karl Ove Knausgard - Father

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.

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