Blooming again: Imprint

My father's fading memory was the quiet beginning of this work.

Watching someone you love slowly lose access to their own memories changes the way you think about preservation. It made me question everything we try to keep. Photographs. Objects. Archives. Even our own bodies.

We often believe that preserving something means protecting it from disappearance. But memory doesn't survive because it is stored. It survives because it is carried.

The flowers were frozen in ice as an attempt to hold onto something already destined to change. Yet the ice melts, the flowers fade, and every archive eventually gives way to time.

What remains is not the object itself, but the imprint it leaves within us.

Perhaps memory has never been something we keep.

Perhaps it has always been something we become.