... No other memory remains for the time of my childhood, and I have even forgot my father's features. Of my mother, a floating figure, I only remember the smile that covered her face and a gold ring, set with a pearl, that she wore on her ring finger.
But I have not forgotten the last chapter of my life there, the one that led me so far, under the sparkling sky of this "White Middle Sea". Nothing changes here, and I can never escape this shore, no matter what distance I traveled on rough waves.
I have not forgotten that chapter, but I have rejected it, fearful for my sanity.
I know now that the day I walked on that sand, my memory, everything I once experienced, has become a book that forgets its pages. No sooner does a precise memory emerge on the surface, that it vanished into an abyss, into oblivion.
My life is written on sheets, that no binding can assemble, and the wind disperses when I brush them.
The poems and prayers I repeated once in solitary recitation, those that all the warriors of my tribe knew by heart, I have forgotten!
And since I am me, now deserted by all memories, crawling like a crab on the glowing sand, what can I do but remember that one chapter of my life, so long avoided, that led me so far? Before the solitude and the tears break me apart.
Perhaps my soul that dwells in this labyrinth of sand will finally find a bit of peace?
Perhaps the darkness of the well of my childhood will close in on me?
Perhaps I will finally find, among the wrecks and the sedimentations, a trail to walk through the human world?
These images, documents, archives, texts and audiovisual materials are a meditation on origins; its ruins and wanderings.
Since my escape from Lebanon on a high speed ferry, toward the end of the civil war, visits to the country of my birth were rare.
After several failed attempts to document these few "returns", I ended up discovering locations of unexplored and prohibited territories of my childhood, extending the travel towards "home", instead of approaching destination, as if returning was impossible.
This series is being achieved through a disposition of meanings, a detailed description and a creative comparison of reality.
The style longs at times to the obscene and to laceration, and others to the noble and to the sovereign.
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