Rooted Memories: Nostalgia for a Land in Times of Turbulence
Fragmented memories of a place often outlast its physical existence, lingering like scattered pieces of a mosaic. These memories, though incomplete, hold the essence of what once was—a glimpse of the light through a shattered window, the murmur of a market now silenced, or the roughness of cobblestones underfoot, now buried beneath rubble. Each fragment carries a story, etched into the senses, and despite the place’s destruction, these shards of memory refuse to be erased. They persist, intertwining with our consciousness, keeping alive the echoes of vanished streets and crumbled walls. In this way, the place endures not in its structures but in the traces it left on those who once walked through it. Each recalled detail resists oblivion, reconstructing the lost in the mind's eye and allowing it to exist again, however tenuously, in the realm of memory.
This work is part of a series inspired by the destruction of the familiar. On an ordinary Sunday, I watched the news from Lebanon, seeing the reporter stroll down the airport road, the camera panning over the destruction. The familiar broken into fragments, memories into dust.
Whenever I go to Lebanon, I always feel an almost childish delight when driving down the road from the airport. A sense of being “home”. I won’t use the past tense, because I refuse to believe that this is in the past, that I will experience it again, and learn to recognize the newly rebuilt structures as familiar.
The use of pencil and charcoal is deliberate, trying to create a sense of impermanence, just like the impermanence of the destruction: ruined buildings will be rebuilt, but the memories will live on. The landscapes are abstracted, imperfectly remembered, seeking to connect with a place that is out of reach.
This work is part of a series inspired by the destruction of the familiar. On an ordinary Sunday, I watched the news from Lebanon, seeing the reporter stroll down the airport road, the camera panning over the destruction. The familiar broken into fragments, memories into dust.
Whenever I go to Lebanon, I always feel an almost childish delight when driving down the road from the airport. A sense of being “home”. I won’t use the past tense, because I refuse to believe that this is in the past, that I will experience it again, and learn to recognize the newly rebuilt structures as familiar.
The use of pencil and charcoal is deliberate, trying to create a sense of impermanence, just like the impermanence of the destruction: ruined buildings will be rebuilt, but the memories will live on. The landscapes are abstracted, imperfectly remembered, seeking to connect with a place that is out of reach.
