ivana matic girard

somewhere between the familiar and the forgotten, things that have been looked at a thousand times, rendered strange again. memory moves through them quietly, asking what it means to belong to a body, a place, a moment that has already passed.

nothing is simply what it appears to be.

fire. then silence. the new cannot begin until the old has ended. the earth has never been afraid.

earth keeps its own record. time from the inside. matter in the middle of its own transformation, caught between what it was and what it has not yet decided to become.