I work in the space where memory begins to disappear.

Rather than documenting events or preserving facts, I am interested in the fragile threshold where history becomes silence, where landscapes retain the traces of lives no longer visible, and where political power shapes not only the future but also the past. My work asks what survives when archives are incomplete, places are transformed, languages are suppressed, or entire ways of living are gradually erased from public consciousness.

Across documentary film, literature, photography, and historical research, I treat memory not as a repository of certainty but as a contested terrain. Each medium reveals what another cannot. Film observes duration and presence; photography isolates the residue of a moment; writing inhabits ambiguity; research uncovers forgotten structures beneath official narratives. Together, they form a single practice—one that moves freely between poetic imagination and documentary inquiry, refusing the conventional boundaries between art and scholarship.

I often begin with what appears peripheral: a disappearing profession, a neglected building, an overlooked community, an archival fragment, a landscape marked by absence. These are not subjects chosen for nostalgia, but sites where larger histories become legible. I am less interested in recording what has happened than in examining the mechanisms through which societies remember, forget, and rewrite themselves.

Absence is therefore not simply a theme in my work; it is an active presence. Silence, censorship, exile, displacement, and erasure are not empty spaces but forces that shape identity and collective memory. My practice attempts to make these invisible structures perceptible—not by reconstructing a complete past, but by revealing its fractures, omissions, and unresolved echoes.

I do not separate artistic creation from historical investigation. Both begin with attentive looking; both depend upon doubt. An archive can be read as a poem, just as a poem can function as an archive. A documentary image may carry the weight of metaphor, while fiction can sometimes approach historical truth more closely than official testimony. For me, these are not contradictions but complementary ways of understanding reality.

Ultimately, my work is less concerned with preserving memory than with questioning its conditions. I am interested in the tension between remembrance and oblivion, visibility and disappearance, evidence and imagination. Within that unresolved space, I look for forms capable of carrying human experience across time—not as monuments to the past, but as living encounters with the present.