Hologra(nd)ma'

Memories are built visually — images imprinted on the retina and later stored, sometimes in distorted forms, in our emotional memory. They can be disparate scenes, accidentally layered or not. Or perhaps the same scene, returning now and then, faded, stratified, adding new details over the old ones, like an inner palimpsest.

Like a director who sculpts characters in the chiaroscuro of a stage, using nothing but light and shadow. Like an old photo of a grandmother, yellowed by time and sunlight, brought back to life through digital restoration software. Or like a magician enchanting us with a hologram – strange, unsettling, familiar.

I called it HoloGra(nd)Ma’ precisely because it’s a blend of all these things. It is written with the ND struck through, to evoke the idea of fading memory — something half-erased, half-remembered. A slip between "grandma" and "hologram", between the personal and the technological, between warmth and distance. 

It’s a play of old symbols told through a contemporary language. It’s time shaping identity. A feminine memory – maternal or archetypal – caught between the real and the symbolic, between what was and what we’ve managed to hold on to.