For a brief moment in time, I met my oldest brother. He made a series of beautiful portraits of me, sixteen years old back then, and just as he arrived into my life, he left again…

In one of those casual walks through our little city, my father announced to me that I had two older brothers. That moment in which the earth stops turning and the world disappears as you feel all the stars twinkle in your bloodstream, gave me an insight into new information that my mother wasn’t his first wife. She was the third. I was as well, the third child and not the one and only. I was the youngest one of three. The privileged one. That took a major adjusting of my lens and a river of questions… 

Ever since I was a small child, I liked sneaking away in my grandparents’ house into a not that much visited room full of unorganised bits and pieces of life and history. I loved to hide in there, connecting bits and pieces of objects, wondering where they came from, what they might have been used for, and who they belonged to in the past. It was a room full of stories, a lot of black and white photos, some torn in half, or with someone cut out, all over the drawers. I liked to try to find the missing pieces and put them together, wondering what could have happened to trigger that act of violence.

One of those fascinating things, inhabiting the drawers of the rarely visited room, were the red, round cartridges of a dangerous object hanging above my grandparents' bed, my grandfather’s hunting gun.