The Family
The Family: An Exhibition of Estranged Lives and Unlived Dreams, 2024
In this house, everyone is creative.
Their absence was always so beautifully composed, like a still life. A hand left unfinished on a sketch, a piano half-played, a cigarette burning in silence. They were never really there, but they left behind such poetic traces, it almost felt like love.
Each room held someone immersed in their own world, memories tugging at them like old songs, dreams keeping them just distracted enough to never notice one another.
Everyone was always busy. And in all that busyness, I was quietly disappearing.
We never truly shared anything.
The house was full of deep experience, but not connection.
Each person simmered alone, eyes turned inward, their doors always closed.
And I stopped knocking. After a while, it felt pointless.
Even now, I wonder:
If they opened their doors. would they even recognise me? Know me?
We were shaped by separate hands, cast in different moulds. I learned to be small and quiet and good at vanishing.
But somehow…
somehow there’s still something holding us together.
Something invisible. Maybe it’s shared blood. Maybe it’s shared longing.
Maybe it’s the simple fact that none of us ever really got what we needed.
A tiny thread, smaller than a fly’s head—
but strong enough to pull us back to this house.
To these rooms.
To each other,
even if only in memory.