The keepers of our stories

As I watch time pass, both around me and within, it becomes harder not to get lost in thoughts of life and death. This body of work is all about the cadence of insights that stemmed from something unique yet simultaneously so universal, childhood and fatherhood.

When I became a dad, I started photographing what unfolded before my eyes. There was no intention to tell a story, nor to formally document something. Intuitively, I only wanted to have a first-person voice about how does it felt. Three months later, my own dad took his last departure and I found myself juggling with both extremes of life.

Time played its part, and when grief subsided, a striking fact hit me: I couldn't help but recognize my dad –first on my daughter and, later on my son’s face expression, moods and reactions. It was as if my dad’s essence was being projected whenever I see the kids being themselves. They all do have the same contagious laugh, they look alike when smiling or getting serious, and forget about displaying unconditional care for the people they love.

The exceptional moments with my own father were in the ordinary of our relationship, and because of that, those precious memories were doomed to be sunk in the ocean of my oblivion. Maybe that's why I'm still so obsessed with protecting the few memories I have left and making sure the new ones are oblivion-proof.

When looking at my children, I can't help but feel the relief of somehow bring up old memories. Although, they come and go like flashes, they are briefly back to help me to understand my present.

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