The work is based on the novel of Marcel Proust “In Search of Lost Time”.

A metallic “spatiotemporal” plexus depicts “lost time” through space, still bearing the imprints of painful memories. It is a mirror that I am looking at, recalling yesterday back to today. Picking up the thread, just like Proust, from a picture that I may manage to see again through involuntary memory someday, I reel off the story of my life, psychoanalyzing myself, and what I always recall is the picture of a female hand; a hand that caressed me when I was a child. A hand that later mourns, another hand with a tender, sensual dimension, a hand that sends away, a hand that begs, a hand that reflects loss, and finally a hand that seizes the helm of life once again. It is a trauma, the recurrent trauma that leads to the revelation of “diversity”.

Proust is a novelist who dares to write about “being different”…

A writer who does not hesitate to express the annihilation of our egoism by a great love and the anguish of jealousy, rejection, passion and the salvific existence of Art… It is this rationale that forms the scaffolding of my work, enfolding spectators as Art enfolds Man. All you have to do is look around you through the lens of the “religion” of Art, and where you feel the end, detect the transitional sign of a new circle of your life, a new beginning that you will live as another person. A person different from your old self…

In other words:

“Ever since I was a child I had a gift, I knew how to suffer.”1

I became aware of my nature and “slipped”, I experienced the loss of beloved ones and “fell”.

I became depressive, “went to bed early for years,”2 fell seriously ill, and saw this as a blessing, since I would no longer suffer from the pain of my jealousy and rejection. The wounds have remained although the memories have either faded or gone. I was saved only when I understood and identified my life with the study of Art. I try to “paint” what cannot be “painted”, and yet, trying again and again while still doubting is a fascinating trip. I became somebody else, I was reborn, I started loving me again, I started loving again, and maybe, unconsciously only, I will remember moments of another life, the life of an oblivious self.3

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Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little. 
― Samuel Beckett

 

1, 2 Originally written by Proust.

3 Characterization mentioned by Proust (“…the oblivious self…”)