


Old photographs in a family album strangely come to life. These are my eyes. I “slip” into my mother like into a piece of clothing, then into my father, my brother, my grandmother, and so on. How does it feel to bring the dead back to life?
They are all people with whom I was connected and whose story I am continuing as a “descendant”. Who am I and what have they made of me? Does a part of them live on in me?