My first memory of the world in the frame is connected to rain. To black and white. To lines and movements. I pushed my nose against the window, and watched how the rain was hatching the outside world. It was beautiful. It hatched my father's roses in front of the window, the path behind them, the fence, the pavement in front of the house and finally the field on the other side of the pavement and the wainut free beside. Also, there were people walking in the rain. The rhithm of their steps blurred the lines between the bowing tree in the rain and racing home. These rhitms are still close to me. The games of movements and lines, black and white live in my frames.
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