We hear their whispers if we listen closely. The ghosts of our families, of the collective, of the land, and of the cultures that shelter us; the ghosts of ancestors, dreams, and remembered yet silenced languages.

My practice begins with these presences. I work with family photographs—the ones we have seen a million times until we no longer truly see them. Discarded archives and images emptied of the stories they once carry become my material. I wait for them to speak.

The family archive is never still. It shifts, resists, conceals, and reveals. As I move back and forth through the corridors of time and generations, I feel both compelled and unsettled. Every image seems to carry another beneath it: another face, another silence, another truth waiting to be acknowledged. Collage becomes a form of excavation rather than mere representation—a way of uncovering the invisible relationships between memory, trauma, longing, and inheritance. Visually, this often manifests as layers of obstruction: hands covering mouths, bodies overlaid with anatomical diagrams, or domestic portraits dissolved into urban ruins.

This work emerges from years of research and practice focused on transgenerational healing. I work intuitively, often in a state closer to dreaming or journeying than to making. The work leads me; it does not ask me to hurry or slow down, nor does it demand certainty. It requires only attention and trust.

As the work unfolds, things begin to move, both within me and around me. I dream differently. My body responds. There is a danger in touching explosive material, but perhaps this is the nature of all genuine encounters with ghosts.

Perhaps the ghosts are not asking for very much. Perhaps they simply ask to be seen.

The experience of a trauma — whatever happens to us — the bad things that happened and the good things that did not happen — cannot be named, cannot be understood, cannot be properly ordered in our minds. Specially not with or through words. Because in case of trauma, the language center gets compromised.

So, without language, our traumatic experience gets stored as fragments of memory, fragments of language, body sensations, some images, some emotions, even smells and of course dreams. All entangled. It’s like the mind disperses. Things gets disrupted and some essential elements get separated. We lose the story, and by doing so, we are unable to heal and to make space for peace. Yet, the pieces aren’t lost. They have simply been rerouted.

Looking at these old and beautiful photographs of our elders, our grandmothers, grandfathers, I allowed a non-verbal language to emerge. By adding new layers into their narrative, layers made of non-words, I birthed them into another story. The intention with this project is to gather and mix different types of languages, reality and dream, nightmare and imagination, human and non human, revelation and possibility, true or false.

I have connected certain dots, but there are so many more. The project “If my Grand Mother was...” gives all our ancestors a hundred other lives, a hundred other ways of being an ancestor.