In five and a half years of emigration, I saw my mother for fourteen days. My father — zero. The tattoo with their portraits was made in a forest, on a bog — a place that slows you down and calms you, like home. A ritual of protest against the impossibility of returning.
The tattoo doesn't change. Memory always does — it doesn't fade, it rewrites itself with every recollection. This series is an attempt to capture that gap through the intuitive deformation of a single image. Behind every move in post-processing lies something concrete: my mother's laugh, my father's eyes, childhood memories, shared grief, fear of the future, boundless love and protest against them at the same time. Not by scheme — by feeling.
It is impossible to physically anchor memory. But it doesn't disappear — it simply becomes something else.
