Attic

Parents’ home is a complex concept to fathom. I have lots of intense experiences associated with it, far from being pleasant. I don’t feel attachment or nostalgia towards it, though it was built by my beloved grandfather. I left it when I was 19 years old, once I had a chance to to start a fairly independent life. I seldom come here, and normally don’t stay for longer than a couple of hours. 

During the lockdown I wasn’t emotionally stable, living in the city. I agreed with my mother that she would let me stay on the first floor of the house, in the “attic”, as we call it in the family. I don’t recall anyone ever living there, therefore for me it has become a part of the house with minimal emotional background. 

Our forced cohabitation didn’t work out from day one. At some point I realised that  settling in was followed by other affairs not complete in the past: setting and fighting for the boundaries, looking for “your own” within the space familiar since childhood, and mutual invasion. After a few days of reflection I took the family photo archive, scissors, glue and made an intervention within the space of the attic.