The Broken Flower
In the spring of 2011, two months after the passing of my grandfather, I dreamt of him.
In my dream, I was climbing up a flight of winding and distorted stairs; my grandfather was sitting at the top. I couldn’t help but burst into tears at the sight of him. Grandfather asked why I was crying. I answered, “Because you’re not here anymore.” He replied, “Then it’s not an issue of time.”
Seven years have since passed.
Death has taken its toll; beyond the sadness lies even more confusion. A bottomless hole has opened up before me and from it, something I do not understand beckons and implores. I sought to get closer to that mystery, but it eludes me like a disappearing shadow.
Time and space; the dearly departed and those left to live; love and inexplicable emotions. Instead of saying that I actively recorded these things, it would be more fitting to say that they summoned me from that bottomless hole. I did photograph them, but they have also become that which transcends my understanding.
This series of works is my personal inquiry into life. I thought that pictures held the answers to my questions and that they would lead me to the core of life. Yet, I discovered that taking pictures is like shooting bullets in the dark; all I had were eyes that yearn for answers and refuse to be closed.
If we can truly communicate via photography, if pictures can be felt by someone on an intrinsic level where the spirit longs to be expressed, then photography is exactly what it ought to be.