Memories

“I’m just browsing through some old stuff,” he said. “Do you see this map? It’s from the airport. I stole it from the Germans.”
Not true. It’s a copy of a map made by a modern copyer, probably fifteen or twenty years ago. But who cares? I know that during the war, as a child, he did break into German offices in the village, and that he did steal maps from them. But now, at the age of 96, all these memories are fading into a thick fog. Sometimes elements from different memories come together into a new story that is almost true. Almost. And that’s more than enough now, for him as well as for me.

Foggy blue

Our local photo club has a project: To create a piece of art photography inspired by David Hockney. I love these kinds of challenges, and dove into the Hockney universe. In turn, Hockney was inspired by Vincent van Gogh, so I dove into that universe as well and looked at it through the eyes of Hockney.  

First piece is inspired by the double (or actually triple) portraits ‘My parents and myself’ and ‘My parents.’ I decided to look for the fragile state of existence of my father, age 95, and his sweetheart, age 93, and the relationship between the three of us in their shrinking and simplifying, schematizing world. Alzheimer has got a firm grip on him; yet the beautiful bright colours make life look wonderful