Not art but memory.
This is a photograph of my sister. I was a little kid then, as she was too.
In the meanwhile my hair turned grey, and we have grown distant to each other.
Not art but memory. The movement of time engraved into one image.
Innocence, the future still to come, and now that we look at this document of a past moment in our life,
we might realize that the future we were dreaming of in very vague terms never has arrived at our doorstep,
and that the dreams we had then, they were the innocent dreams of our youth,
and now our youth is gone, and our dreams are gone, and doors are closed by an invisible hand.