A decade is approaching since I departed The (un)United Kingdom, and in those ten years, I have scarcely reconciled with it. What I left behind, was a disbursed and dysfunctional family, sheltered in a picturesque landscape. After some years, I began to dwell in a field of romanticism, as I imagined my small home in the countryside. When I returned briefly in summer 2020, I rolled out a series of photographs within a flash. I was struck by all that bathed in the almighty sunshine or under the salty moonlight. Through the act of photographing, I began to re-connect not only with the nature, the language, and the architecture, but also with my parents. My mother became my English muse and my father drove me to places he is fond of such as Burnham-on-Sea. The romantic thoughts I had about England unusually lived up to the imagination.
Despite this pouring of joy to be home, I am fundamentally sure that I will not return permanently. Behind the rose’s lye parts of that life, one that I fear and do not want to confront. Through photographing I attempt to re-stitch the broken threads and weave a tapestry of old and new photographs.
