Fossil II

Like us, objects carry stories from distant origins – beginnings too elusive to fully grasp. If traced back, their histories might stretch all the way to the Big Bang. They rest quietly on shelves, in drawers, garages, or living rooms, illuminated by chandeliers. Over time, homes change, belongings are moved or sold, and objects become unwanted – discarded, broken down, recycled, or reduced to dust – only to be reborn as something new.

I document the surfaces of everyday objects, each charged with personal memories but, from afar, reflecting a universal legacy – a shared history linking culture, archaeology, family, relics, and artifacts, all markers of time and impermanence.

I deliberately leave my objects in a placeless, fragmented state – crumbling, nameless, anonymous, undefined – yet connected by common threads of history. These impressions speak a universal language, echoing life’s transience: buildings, everyday things, memories, and fading traces of loved ones. I strive to capture and “freeze” familiar details as a legacy, knowing that all will eventually crumble and turn to shards of time, offering future generations a chance to rediscover them anew.

As I trace the reverse side of the cupboard door with my fingers, I begin to weave graphic threads in my mind – mirrored reliefs of imprinted objects, quiet whispers of what once was, or still is, in the form of remnants or fossils. The shapes pressed into material become symbolic matrices of original forms – blueprints from which imagined reproductions might emerge.

…

I press my hands against the corner of my writing desk, feeling its edge and the textured groove beneath my palms. The imprint of the fastening clamp is etched into my skin. And I wonder: What will happen to this table in the future? When will it be replaced by something else? What will become of it when I’m no longer here? Where will its journey continue?

Why do objects – like furniture – have the power to hold memory within themselves? And why, as time passes, will I long for this exact desk – not a newer one? And why, at the same time, will I desire something untouched, clean, unmarked – instead of the one that holds everything I already know?