Works: 2020

picture book (analogue photography)

In Paris on the seventh floor.

The stairway as a meditative rounding of the day.

Each stair symbolically as an experience of the day.


Cy would always take the lift.

While I was symbolically recapitulating my day

and step by step approached my inner balance,

Cy was already slumbering in the land of milk and honey,

just as I crossed the threshold.

picture book

I don’t know what it requires to understand the society of Korea. but, indeed, to fall asleep with a smile on the face, we have to preciously nourish /maintain our fantasy

Well-knowing that the sensation of peeling oranges, counting peas would become a different one in Paris, I flattened the asphalt beneath my feet for another, maybe last time; my fingertips constantly brushed along the facades of this city; in no other city I could sense the standstill as distinctively as here amidst the hissing subways, the streets flooded/illuminated at night. The explicit movement of her surroundings soils the freezed standstill of her, one, the, this; Berührung.

 in my immersive environment in Seoul i found wherei don’t belong to. surprisingly trough my view finder i found moments i desired, and still do, to eternally in- terwove with. ‘white wet sand’ moments at the sea wet sand between the toes. isn’t it of unappeasable magic! indeed for me it is. so much of being in the present; days, yea years after, I would over and again find tiniest sand crumbs everywhere in my apartment (laughing) let’s think of them as reminders to never forget about the magical moments in life. if it’s sand crumble or grain I go with both, the one more besetting as the other.

picture book (analogue photography)

grateful for all the moments in which i found personal treasures, the displayed photographies accumulate into my picture book, inherent 112 nights spent abroad in my mothers mother country. a seemingly well-trusted culture known by stories of my mom, puzzled together with blurry childhood memories. peu à peu l’oiseau fait son nid. i hoarded memories to create my Seoul, my Korea. to my surprise i encountered uncountable vast pinpoints which i desire to be eternally interwove with, and all that with a deep anchored chuckle.

in search of my umbilical cord i figured something out, whatever it would be, i’m still exploring. paradoxically it turned out to be the image producing advice par excellence, die Kamera , to embody my umbilical cord. this immensely packed Mega City, home for millions of people, locale of flickering billboards and miraculous phenomena of nature, killer for too many students, then, turned its facade of a apriori isolating monster into an odd, ambiguous playground.

picture book (analogue photography)

The capital letters of the subject of this chapter could never become too large to express the dimension of my feelings towards the stories that lie behind this simple word, the indescribable, deep-rooted beautifulness of a wholesome piece of art that is formed by every single encounter that happened within this word, which perfectly knows how to fill the spaces between the individual letters with openness, magic, levity and warmth and then to multiply in my heart as a seedling, to blossom like the early morning, cheerful chirping of the blue tit in the branches of Antazavės rich woodland. saldžių sapnų. before i go to bed, i take a book. i read Jaunyste and the encrypted words unfold in theirs magical sound at the masquerade ball of an infinite love story, whose author carried the pen in his hands right up to this masquerade ball, just to be able to give himself over to this effervescent spectacle. i flip through the mysterious pages and my fingers literally sink into a sea. the author of the book is Marius Lucka and the author of the love story, i guess is me. and although i do not understand what they say, yet every sound reaches me, and so i feel their voices even more than if i were searching for meaning in their spoken words.

dear Lithuania
i didn’t left
i just took a step
towards what’s next
After the weekend in Lithuania i look out the window and look back 
on one wholesome moment. the thurs melts with sat and covers all the sun of this mon day. I am looking out of the window. we are passingonebigcloud.Vilnius.ifIwouldnotknowyourname,only the stories you do tell (me), you’d be my very own fairytale. i am listening your touch before I go to bed, you make me realise there’s no need for a turning back because with you I know what I have. looking ahead I should be in Paris soon. either ways still wicked by your taste I allow myself to soon boomerang back to you, very soon dear Vilniu.

picture book (analogue photography)

My gaze roves around and touches a scenery, which is soon a memory, soon a dream. Ieva’s glance and I measure the distance between my fingers. Incoming message from Kyra, the display dim as if my eyes were welling with tears or was it the display itself (?), reply quickly, empty my glass, reply again and turn away. I am high. The substances      dancing inside me are as unknown, as unexplained as the exact composition of the exquisite dish on the plates to my eyes. Soon after an incoming mail and 

I go for a smoke. Go to walk the SS 20 Celine Fashion Show. 

   48 Stunden darauf 

     Paris - Toulon -Marseille - 



My media adapted to my backpack.

Deriving from my first Europe-journey of 40 nights living on-the-streets (ots) without any expenses, I traced my working-field: publicity-privacy, urban-rural, stranger-familiar.

Ongoing series


always very personal to you. this thin line between foreign and known - Audrey

Our past is thinner than this page.
We can never look behind the page.
I thought thousand nights of you tonight and maybe we have a chance but touching myself made it all even more lonesome. Yearning ran 
mournful through my sere fingers like sand inthe gears. I could trace my parched pores so precisely, I hallucinated,
not even seeing myself in my thumb again. And when you said Paris is fragile... so then
I sleep outside even if
I would have loved to sleep on your skin.
It wasn’t the light i was missing,
I was missing my shadow.

dear kindness of strangers
do you want to sleep with me, out on the streets? do you want to cover me until we rest in peace? dear street.


a deep diving journey into South Korea’s treasures and measures, the origin of my beloved mothers family and my playground for nearly five month. starting with a desolate, yeah by far the loneliest period of my life yet, i played out all my cards. i talked to homeless people, to wracks, to strangers, prostitutes, artists, curators, musicians, politicians, millionaires, monks, spirits, to mother earth and all this for the sake of finding answers to question i was driven by, still am. i lived in a 6m2 room, lived in the 64th floor, lived on the streets, lived out this exciting hell.