I seek to bring forth what I call a “trace of touch” — a presence that cannot be fully captured by photography.
A photograph can preserve an image, but it cannot retain everything that belonged to a place: the air, the temperature, the time someone spent there, or the sensations received by the body. I work directly with photographs in order to move closer to what remains outside the image.
I cut, fold, layer, paste, and sew.
These actions are not intended simply to alter the photograph. They are ways of approaching, through the body, what the photograph alone cannot hold.
Each time I touch the photograph, the time fixed within the image begins to overlap with the time of memory and the time of my present action. Cuts, folds, layers, and stitches retain traces of that contact.
For me, the room was the first place where I strongly sensed this kind of presence. The light entering a room in childhood, flowers and plants, stillness, the presence of people, air and temperature — these remain in the body not as specific events, but as sensations that precede language.