Approches

Time is something fascinating. Its undefinable and yet homogenous territory where events occur is somehow the counterpart of space. The convention of time indicated by clocks and calendars is nothing more than a superficial view upon time and all that it implies. My fascination for the elderly lies back in time. I recall my admiration for my grandmother’s wrinkles and the low resilience of the skin on her hands. The stories she told where even more fascinating, stories of her own experiences at my age, which where so different to my own experiences. What she lived next, which I used to listen eagerly in an attempt to filter it and translate it into what I should wait for in my future, as if her life could be transposed into mine with the appropriate translation of the data she passed on to me. For many years, going back into time with her stories has for me been like travelling into the future, and I’ve been looking at us all, in a kind of spontaneous and impulsive way, as time repository. But, if time were external to us, then where would all the memories that I was being narrated be stored? And if it were internal, how could one’s memories survive beyond one’s death? I like to think that memories are to be found in this uncertain and undefined place where time lies, a place with unmarked frontiers, where one comes in and out without necessarily noticing it