From the series Between finger and thumb
Between a finger and a thumb lies the corner of our world, the intimate space of our being.
The distance with which we measure the substance of our past. Years of entanglement made up
of scattered oddments and embellished anecdotes. Tales of broken threads which we desperately
hold on to, for they are our only support, the strings on which we hang, our safety net.
In the mist of our fragmented childhood, home becomes the only thing that binds it together, a common
ground to which we may anchor our fleeting souvenirs. But as we venture into its darkest recesses,
we stumble upon the fears that once tormented us, resurrecting moments of acute crisis. For home is
also the theatre of more sinister matters, sheltered in its forgotten margins hide the remnants of past
conflicts and family dramas.