Remenisence,  2003 collage

Remenisence,  2015 mixed media on plexiglass
 

If I had known then that this image would leave such a large impression on my current and future work, I might have chosen a more congenial or fathomable visual. Yet, reality works differently.

 

During one of my assignments in 2003, I accepted the challenge to trigger images from childhood with my audience. 

 

If you as a child see an image of a slender and dark young man in the prime of his life, it is not surprising that this image in your mind remains unchanged during the years to come. A child is not aware of the trace of time. For me this memory formed, like a bolt out of the blue, when I was twelve years old. He had grey instead of black locks, wrinkles where his dimples used to be, and no, not a six-pack. 
 

No space you enter is ever the same when you leave it.
No place you've wandered returns in memory unaltered.
No touch, however familiar, remains unchanged in time.
 

Every subtle shift bends the light of what you thought you knew.
 

So I ask—how can we trust that memory holds truth?
How can we be sure, when even the door just crossed fades from the mind like a dream at dawn?
 

This space, this now, this fragile thread of reality — it too will crease and weather, softly folding into something else.
 

And so, everything is always becoming.
Always unfamiliar.
Always new.
 

Marvelous, isn’t it?