I watch, fascinated, the VHS relics of my childhood, filmed by my parents.
Did I really experience that? The memory is not clear; it seems that it belongs no more to me than to this image. I was so small. It was when my mother was still alive. Fragile magnetic signals, the faded, distorted images have been evaporating in the darkness of cardboard boxes for decades. Memories-images that touch me but that I cannot touch.I pause the image. Then another. An urgency arises: to capture what I can still capture. An expression, a gesture, a frame. This image burned by the sun, these delirious colors that only VHS can invent, and sometimes even these video inscriptions that cross out faces are also part of my memories. Later, the magnetic material becomes textile material, during the slow and patient ritual of embroidery.In a journey of forms, the aesthetics of the camcorder, stripped down to its original intention of bearing witness and preserving, finds a new voice.What was fleetingly written on a plastic strip in 1/25th of a second, I explore, deconstruct, reconstruct, and sculpt every detail for weeks. A sacred time that repairs and brings back to life.Of course, I really did experience these memories. And now I can touch them.