I am a searcher of things, a playful collector. Unfortunately quite disorderly, I am constantly searching, in the middle of the action – I can always be found where things are happening, preferably in the place furthest removed from my comfort zone. Always travelling. If not in person then in thoughts and with my eyes. Constantly curious, sometimes brave, generally careful and always willing to look below the surface. Stopping when others keep walking. Questioning, touching, feeling, looking, smelling, capturing situations. Hesitating, gawping, marvelling.
I am interested in people and their stories: the security guard, the fruit seller, the photographer I recently met. The old neighbour who now lives in an old people’s home. The woman I met on the plane recently travelling to Accra on her own, the Israeli painter on her way to New York. The grandfather holding his grandson’s hand, that group of seemingly boisterous of youths, the small girl with a sad look at the street corner. I collect their stories. The newspaper seller at the traffic lights, I speak to him every day. What moves you? What makes you happy? What is the meaning of home for you, for me, at this or the opposite end of the world? What unites us, what separates us? Is there such a thing as real, true happiness? What is the meaning of loss, and – close to real life – what if death suddenly becomes a subject of discussion? I collect. Every day I collect new stories, memories, I collect pictures – in my head, with my camera. In many boxes, on many seemingly chaotic piles of paper I sort, connect, join new stories and faces with that which life has already presented to me. I walk through this one life of mine with open eyes – knowing that no-one else can see it, love it, live it like me.