After the death of a person, things and memories remain from him. I've been renting in the room where Gran used to live for a year. Last summer, she passed away and I had to sort out all her things, many of which I didn't even know existed. I made portraits with objects I didn't understand, old sets, cracked plates and saucers, eggshells, rusty nails, hammers, worn coats, or just dried flowers. I fixed myself in my memory. Therefore, my visual language is rather poor and monotonous-portraits. I did them even with a kind of manic addiction, without analyzing or putting any original goal or idea into this process. I wanted to fix myself... for memory. So that no one will forget me when my room becomes empty. BA lived for things, and I transform these things into memory. I want to shout that I am, even when I disappear without a trace, like BA…