What is a memory? When can we know a moment has become a memory? And if not an image, what is it? Between plastic and documental, Zoé Bernardi investigates on her own family. As the notion of memory, photographing is ambiguous: presence-absence, fiction-narration, representation-abstraction… I burnt my fingers and my wings, I built, I destroyed, I blasphemed, I hit, I sublimated, I desired, I procreated, I killed. If getting rid of the image by creating new ones seems paradoxical and a already lost quest, and maybe this is why Sisyphus seems so familiar. By trying to analysing the architecture of this community of aged punk and its fantaisies, she wanders between the caress as inheritage, the fear of disparition, the gesture without trace in order to try to build her own identity. One quote from Marley Dumas perfectly conjures up it:
"What are we going to do now that we know
that the enemy is not outside the walls
but lives intimately within
in such ways
that everyone and everything is suspect?"