2018
Text, iron chain, glass sheet, gelatin silver print
[…] An afternoon in the early nineties. I remember the sun filtering through the curtains, making them transparent. Next to me, my grandma is telling me that the chains in her pendulum clock once were in fine, pure gold: “Somebody stole them and replaced them with fake ones,” she says. I’m a little girl, standing between the brown leather armchair and the black crystal coffee table. Grandma is leaning over me. From below, I watch her face change expression. My eyes jump to the clock, looking for the chains. I stare at them as if these objects could give me some kind of answer. I’m pervaded by doubts and a sense of injustice. I concentrate on the mechanism, the golden cylinders, and the chains, wondering where the true ones went. I reflect in the still glass, while the pendulum swings, and the bent figure of my grandma slowly leaves the room. I follow the regular movements of the clock, while the ticking marks the seconds. I imagine someone’s big hands taking our precious things, swiftly, silently, secretly. So that nobody can see. […]
After I exhibited this work, I put the golden frame with the text in a wooden hand-made box. 