Obsessed with the search for the roots of birth and therefore of that natural suffering inscribed in each of us I begin to photograph my family almost compulsively. I dig through the drawers of memory: familiar objects, yellowed letters, diaries, old toys. I try to understand where I come from, to impose order on chaos, to exorcise the pain. I was born from the love between two people, and yet it is from that very place that my feeling of abandonment arises — an ancient echo that repeats itself generation after generation in my family tree. I feel this visceral need to know: where does all of this come from? Why do we create and destroy at the same time?
