A summer ago I found some old slides from my grandparents attic, and perhaps as a desperate attempt at resisting an artificial nostalgia, I took comfort in projecting them onto different surfaces. The past becomes material, in a sense, only to be flattened and unreachable again by photographing it, and this is the result of me deriving some narcissistic indulgence in controlling the process of something I wasn’t supposed to be a part of. Maybe.