A few years ago, while moving, I came across an old projector and hundreds of slides that chronicled my father’s life from the 1960s to the 1990s: images ranging from his childhood to his untimely death. As I leafed through them, I began to piece together a fantasy of a father I don’t remember, discovering that this imagined memory made me feel less alone, less empty. 
A few years ago, the loss of my sister profoundly marked my life, raising new questions. What happens when someone we love leaves us? How do we construct memories? Can we dwell in memory, reshaping it to find comfort? And what role does grief play? Does it transform, or does it remain unchanged? As time passes, the pain seems to fade, but in reality, does time not pass—is it we who pass through it?
With these questions in mind, I returned to the attic, embarking on a new artistic exploration that I immediately felt was necessary to explore grief through multiple forms of expression. From this emerged a hybrid performance: a combination of live sound composition, performance, visual installation, and poetry. This variety reflects the complexity of the emotion I’m exploring: a profound grief that is nonetheless filled with light. It is not a performance about death, but a celebration of life and of those who remain. A tribute. It is meant to be a celebration, a space for reflection on the fact that we have all survived: the loss of loved ones, a childhood that has faded away, and lost landscapes. Loss is not merely deprivation; it can transform into a place to inhabit, a distant land that defines who we are.
The body, too, is a guardian of memory. On stage, it becomes a place where memory manifests itself through movements, gestures, and spaces that offer glimpses into the intimacy of grief. This physical dialogue is accompanied by soundscapes that act directly on the body’s structure, because sound is not merely perception, but matter that passes through us and shapes us. Every memory is also a loss, and we are made of these absences: we build our identity around the space of what we have lost.
The stage thus becomes twofold: a playground and an operating room, where we celebrate what is no longer there but continues to define us. Memory is not merely individual; it is collective, universal, and perhaps its most powerful symbol is water. Water, which flows everywhere, carries fragments of everything with it, bringing an endless history of transformations. In a perpetual cycle, nothing is destroyed; everything is transformed.