Un Accidente begins with a question: what happens to memory—and to the self—at the edge of death? The series unfolds in a space detached from time or place, drifting like a mind unraveling. There’s no solid ground. Familiar moments surface and vanish. Meaning flickers, then fades. The sequence moves like the remnants of a dream—disjointed, unstable, unresolved.
The project draws from multiple sources: personal photographs, family archives, historical materials. These images interrupt and contradict each other, blurring together like memories that refuse to align. That dissonance is intentional—it mimics how memory might behave as it breaks down, sprinting from one recollection to another, confusing people and places in the process.
Photography offers the illusion of holding time still, but only as it vanishes. That tension—between presence and disappearance—is at the core of the series. The materiality of the photograph, its fragility, its susceptibility to damage and change, mirrors the instability of memory itself. The intervention on the images themselves becomes part of this language. Many having been cut, rearranged or reassembled, this alterations is a form of inquiry. A way to think through remembering—and its erosion.
Un Accidente isn’t a document on death. It’s a hypothesis. An exercise of imagining how identity might come apart, how memory might loosen, as the mind releases what once felt certain. Like trying to recount a dream that made sense until you spoke it aloud, what remains is residue. Fragments, near-connections, impressions. A soft collapse of boundaries. Not an ending, but a fading into something unreachable.