As I experience time passing —both around and within me, it becomes harder not to get lost in thoughts about life and death. This body of work is all about the cadence of insights that stemmed from the overlapping aspects of something that unique yet simultaneously so universal: childhood and fatherhood.
The keepers of our stories
When I became a dad, my immediate environment changed. The notion of time and space expanded and I began to notice the imperative need to adjust to new routines. New priorities arose competing with old ones. Everything was novel. The anxiety was well balanced with a new type of curiosity. It all felt familiarity different, and naturally, I started photographing what unfolded in front of me. There was no intention to tell a story, nor to formally document something.
Three months later, I received a phone-call from Lima. It was about my dad. He was about to take his last departure. I managed to get back home just in time before his body gets into the incinerator. Meanwhile my eyes mirrored the flames, my mind couldn’t stop the tension from being juggling with both extremes of life at the same time.
Time played its part and when grief settled, a striking fact hit me: I couldn't help but recognize my dad on my daughter’s face expression, moods and reactions. Later on, when my son arrived it was impossible not to see the resemblances. Literally and figuratively, it was as if my dad’s essence was being projected whenever I see the kids being themselves.
I used to say, "they all do have the same contagious laugh, they look alike when getting serious, and forget about displaying unconditional care for the people they love". Did I get some looks from my father as well? Now, I’m able to say "we", now I feel part of the chain. Unavoidable, this has become an identity therapeutic exercise, recognizing myself on both sides of the coin. It was never my story, it was always our stories.
Although the kids are no longer babies, I always want to protect them with all my strength. As a result, I’ve find myself obsessed with protecting the few old memories I have left. I want to make them timeless, boundless.
I'm overwhelmed by the fact that everything is in constant motion and change.
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. If I’m able to recall what I was expecting from him when I used to look at him, it’s because the way I see them looking at me: a pair of big eyes looking for a subtle complicity with an embracing smile that assured them I there for them. I make sure to somehow replicate the smile he had when looking at me.
When looking at the kids, I can't help but feel the relief of rummaging worn out memories. Although they come and go like flashes, they briefly help me understand who I am, where I came from, where we are going. I'm just finding more connections and meaning about my present and how I do understand my self.
