This village is futilely beautiful.

The mills spin futilely.

An archive photograph of my father.
They are building the house.
This image is from my memory.

Perhaps imaginary ideas, memories of home, cherished feelings of regret and loss have forced me to return to the house I grew up in and find ways to engage with them.

The photo story is about home.

The camera, in this sense, is a means, with which I try to fill, complete these memories and make them more tangible.

It takes 2 hours to get home from Yerevan. The images accompanying the road, the silence, the privacy, pierced the boundaries of time and reality, making this journey more internal.

Now I am back. I am repairing my house by bringing out images from these surfaces, full of light, play, celebration and traces of childhood.

Dream-images, elusive like memories. Personal, pure, deceptive, distant.

A slightly leaning column right in front of the house, for me, an important element of the image of the house. Kitchen garden, our soil. There is always time for nature to create here. Inside our cellar, early in the morning. My brother’s overcoat which has been hanging here for years.
  • The house
  • Photo of a photo. A fragment from my grandfather’s military uniform.
The mirror surface has also been affected by humidity.
A corner of the door covered with cobwebs from being closed for a long time. It is this picture on the windows in winter. Kompots made by my mother. Walls deteriorate from moisture when left unattended for a long time.
  • The garage where my father spent most of his time.
  • >
    Around the house.
One of the most intimate scenes on the way home.
  • Fences leading to the kitchen garden.
  • Fragment from a ceiling. This room was once a living room. Now it is a garage.
A picture from surfaces of the house. House objects. My brother’s photograph, pills and shells left from old times. House objects.
I am mostly touched by everyday objects hung carelessly on the walls that are no longer used.

Poor Father

Poor Mother

Poor Leila

I will not return anymore.

Poem by Rasul Yunan

This is how mold grows on the house walls.