es on a different meaning. In a room that is no longer mine, populated by foreign objects, a bit of melancholy and three boxes remain. Before leaving home, I filled them as much as I could with all kinds of things that needed to be kept safe: documents, papers, tickets, from a thumbtack preserved for who knows what reason to some object laden with symbolic value, ready to explode in my hands in some hypothetical and improbable future. So, every time I return, I find in these three boxes, which lie solitary and await being opened, an anchor to my old reality. I dive into them to look for something, or just to pass the time and rediscover each time with new curiosity objects I had forgotten I had kept. Small fragments of me lie unchanged over time just as I left them, accumulating years and aging silently, waiting to be rediscovered one day by chance. This wandering, new each time, of the eyes, accompanied by the movement of hands shifting memories, is documented with a camera. Each shot lays bare a part of my past, of my presence in this house, in the lives of other people, and in my own existence.