In an abandoned house in Ghent, I found a box of slide positives by an unknown photographer. The images depict only landscapes, taken in France and Belgium in the 1980s. To me, they felt like fragments of my own youth—places we once visited as a family, yet now stripped of any trace of us. These images seem to reconstruct a past that is partly mine.
I printed them at a scale of 50 × 75 cm and arranged them in a continuous line along the walls of Ontsteking. At first glance, the images appear sharp, but on closer inspection a growing grid emerges, gradually rendering them unreadable from nearby.
At the center of the space stand two wax sculptures, based on the shoreline of Cancale in France. Cancale is one of the places we used to visit as a family; I returned there to make moulds of parts of the rocks.
In a smaller adjoining room, I presented a large triptych: three paintings forming a single altarpiece, each composed of 256 colors. These colors are derived from three views of the sea at sunset in Fisterra (Spain). Fixed in time, they function as a kind of solidified memory—a souvenir of a fleeting moment.