When I was little I wanted to be an adventurer. I read about children in the woods and I dreamed that I would discover a kingdom of my own behind my house. Instead, it was my grandmother's house with all its floors and doors and balconies and gardens. Rooms that lead to rooms full of objects and a courtyard that leads to a garden, stairs that go down to the depths of the basement and stairs that go up to the upholstered bedroom. I imagined that one day I would pull out the right book from the big library in the study room and the wall would turn around and reveal secret rooms. 

 

And this adventures house was ruled by my grandmother, with her special words and her aristocratic pursuit of pleasure and her love for this house, and with her immense life force that made everyone who knew her feel like she was a woman who couldn't die. But my grandmother died in April 2021.

Since then I'm trying to take all the belongings she left us and turn them into my grandmother, I'm trying to photograph all the photos of her that I never photographed.

As I walk around her house I feel her accurate and alive, I hear her voice saying to me "Sweetie pie, I feel cold just by looking at you!". I see her standing in the wide living room, looking at us, pleased with her standard of hospitality, passing between us and asking if we drank wine and ate the "smoked saumon". As I walk around her house of adventures I also can't help but notice the bare nails on the walls, the tables being emptied of "Pichifkes", the disconnected appliances, the smell of my grandmother's clothes fading away almost completely. All of her absent absence. Every day the house is emptied a little more, and I'm afraid: please don't let me be emptied of my grandmother.

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