Sarko Mutafyan

In The Presence of Dust

Energy becomes imbedded into matter. The cells of our possessions carry memories of joy and trauma, of fabrics worn on a dark day, of spaces lived and left behind.

After moving numerous and consecutive times over the past 9 years, the idea of a home has become foreign to me. The soul of any place - exchanged with only its objective presence and my temporary move through it. What was once a need for belonging and attachment to a space, which would provide an opportunity for safety, comfort and a sense of growth, has been reduced to the illusion of establishment, fractured by consistent instability and uncertainty.

As I spend a recent evening in Bulgaria, I begin observing, under scrutiny, what could be referred as my domestic landscape, to notice how abstract it has become in comparison to what I’d known before. Objects from the homes of distant friends have found a new identity – as household items,  furniture or vaguely meaningful decorations. The pasts of others lay piled up, in rooms that aren't even ours to possess - and would soon most likely be abandoned yet again.

And what, if anything, is left behind our lives will be handed to the next, with our trials, trophies and anxieties within.

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