the horizon of saudade, digital, dec. 2024.

This body of work explores the quiet, unspoken ache of human memory - the way we never truly heal from people, places, and moments that have marked us. Healing, it seems, is never linear. Healing is undone often by seemingly insignificant yet significant revisitation of a familiar place, a song, or a scent. These works seek to unravel the paradox of our attachment to pain - the bittersweet pull of revisiting memories of what and who once hurt us.

There is a strange euphoria in this act of revisiting. It's not masochism but a deep, almost involuntary impulse to feel something again, even if that something is sorrow. We tell ourselves that the past is behind us, yet we circle back, again and again, not because we lack strength but because we crave under-standing. Sometimes, we visit not to heal but to remember what we were, where we were, and who we were with. It's as if the pain itself becomes a tether — fragile yet unbreakable.

Through this body of work, I attempt to visualize the push and pull of memory — the way it tugs at us with both longing and dissonance. There is beauty in this contradiction, in the act of revisiting spaces that hold the weight of absence — voids where memories once lived but now feel incomplete, like pieces of a puzzle that no longer fit. Within this collection, you may find echoes of your own past: the people who once felt like home, the places that carried your quiet grief, and the hands you once held but had to let go of.

This is not a celebration of suffering but an exploration of its persistence. It is an attempt to bridge the seen and the felt, a way to capture not just the physicality of a place and people but the emotional residue it leaves behind. Each photograph is a fragment of a singular memory that evokes conversation about memory, healing, and the human urge to hold on.

To revisit a place is to confront yourself. To revisit pain is, perhaps, to seek control over it. This body of work asks, What do we gain by returning? It doesn't offer answers - only glimpses of the quiet euphoria that comes from remem-bering, even when forgetting might seem the kinder option.