Memory… is the diary that we all carry about with us.
– Oscar Wilde
In my early childhood my sister and I spent a lot of time roaming about my Grandmother’s farmyard. All sorts of things were scattered over the place and gathered in barns. Things like chunks, components and fragments of dismissed materials. I dragged the items from one place to another and combined them into an entirely new whole in which I imagined a cosmos. There were animals too and in summer wheat and other crops rose above me. We enjoyed the liberty to explore without any restriction. I became aware of structures which I found in the rows of corn stalks, in the pebble-stones of the paths and in the abandoned property overgrown with scratchy weeds under which I was tussling for treasures. There were even interesting structures to discover under the tiles and other big things I lifted. When I attended art school I learned that memories are impossible to contain in a total picture. That brought me to the question: what is the nature of memories? They do not intentionally arise and occur without apparent causal connections. There are no unquestionable points of view and no definite grip to images. I try to catch this in structures and into photographic impressions and duplicates. Without the attempt to aesthetice. There are no iconographical grounds, narrative holds or decisive distances between foreground and background. The shapes that looms out of my work is created by the viewer.