Parents and, broadly speaking, relatives and kins. We know the names of some of them, a date written with a pen on the back of a photo, and we go back in time through the fragments of stories that fix moments of their lives. We look for traces of the invisible net that connects them to us, those similarities that relate us to them. We try to understand how we have become what we are through them. Holding old pictures in my hands, feeling their surface imagining to enter their dimension has prompted me to indulge in a respectful processing...
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