Those who have crossed the Lethe lose memory. Anxieties, feelings, ideas, dreams – everything dissipates, like smoke. Only the empty shells of individuals on old yellowed photographs remain. A dry snakeskin on the shore.
I am looking at the photographs from the collection of the Museum of the History of Photography. Ordinary portraits from family albums, taken for memory, for oneself or as a present for those akin. Unknown faces, unknown people, tense poses – nothing, that could touch personally, interest a person who is not related to the characters via kindred bonds…
But something continues to live and pulsate, preserved in them. One just needs to take a step aside, to change the point of view, to rotate one’s crystal of attention to another facet, and it becomes accessible. At the beginning timidly, stealthily, like a bindweed shoot, feeling about in yourself for the hooking-points… "To Valentina Petrovna from Anastasia and husband, in happy memory of days spent together". Then more and more confidently and strongly… "To my dear daughter, with the hope of meeting soon". And here the shroud is already slipping away, through the cracks of the asphalted photographic graveyard spring grass is pushing way. The personal armour becomes illusory, and the illusory is being covered with flesh. And through your heart and brain it spreads its own fine net of mycelia of others stories.