Overly Exposed, 2026

Photographic print, chlorophyll anthotype in agar jelly, found objects, camera obscura, sound installation (32′ 57″).

On the first floor of the studio, right after you walk through the door, there is a second door. One is original, having been here since the beginning of the studio, and is a bit holey, the other is newer. The red tiles underfoot also double – some are original, others are not. It was probably tried to match the color. The same goes for the first-floor studio space, with its wooden floor. For me, unproportionate changes in the flooring raise more questions than answers. Built in 1981, the studio used to be permeated by the wind. Although it has now been sealed off, on the second floor you can still find a direct connection to the outside – the chimney above the sink. That spot in the studio originally had been left for a fireplace. Since it was never constructed, a sink appeared in its place, probably the only one in the academy where rain pours in. The layers of time in the studio are more or less evident even without knowing their origin. There is a lot of lack in it that started together with the studio. The studio’s memory is not mine, but I feel it every time I am here. Working here, it seems I could hear everyone who has ever been here. Especially after dark, when natural light stops scattering the dust. There is so much space here for something to intrude, get stuck, linger, hide. Memories accumulate, fade, and disappear; with each recollection, they drift further from their original form. One reality reforms into another, never static, always changing. A lost memory can surface at any moment, with the right word, sensation, scent, or touch. A false memory also creeps into the mind like a parasite, taking advantage of the fact that such a memory does not yet exist. I don’t really remember days or sometimes even months after shock-inducing events. Anything could be true, I just don’t know it yet. I don’t remember my childhood, of course, but I have video recordings that help me recall it or form a memory of it. Except that I don’t know the people in those recordings. I analyze every one of my movements, words, and glances, searching for answers about the present. I feel a little ashamed. How could I have done that. Why do I remember the same event so differently? When light envelops an image yet to be formed, it has no choice but to imprint itself onto the receiving material. The imprints of chlorophyll, suspended in jelly, were created as the sun burned away the areas where nothing exists. As light passes through the pinhole, the image is recorded on photographic paper, in this contact between the origin of the image and its physically fixed state, with no intermediaries involved. The image of that moment was recorded. But it will change, of that I have no doubt.