My work begins with the feeling that what we inherit does not remain in the past. It enters the body quietly, shaping the way we move through the world, the way we fear, the way we apologise, and the way we learn to make ourselves smaller.

For a long time, I thought of the home as a place of protection. Through these images, it gradually became something more ambiguous: a space where memory, affection, pressure, and silence coexist. The walls, furniture, and ordinary objects are never simply part of the background. They carry emotional traces. They seem to remember what the body is still trying to understand.

In my self-portraits, the figure is often hidden, interrupted, or absorbed by the room. This disappearance is not only about fragility. It reflects the difficulty of recognising where my own identity begins and where inherited fears, expectations, and family patterns still speak through me.

These two series come from the same need: to understand how intimacy can become a form of confinement, and how love can sometimes exist alongside self-erasure. The domestic space becomes an extension of an inner landscape, while the body becomes the place where memory is stored, resisted, and slowly rewritten.

My work is an attempt to separate my voice from the voices that came before me, without denying their presence. It is about looking at what has shaped me, staying close to it, and at the same time trying not to disappear inside it.

Memory has Pink Walls

What we inherit doesn’t live only in names, faces, or memories. It remains in the body, in the way we apologize, and in the way we are afraid.

Family moves through us before we even learn to distinguish it from ourselves. Separating our voice from theirs is essential, in order to understand where love ends and self-erasure begins.