My work begins in many places, but I return again and again to images. Over the years I have gathered a photographic and audiovisual archive from my hometown—an accumulation I revisit like an archaeologist, brushing dust from what time has pressed into the surface, looking for the patterns that memory leaves behind. Childhood analogue photographs call up what was only half-lived. When I look at them with my relatives, the same image speaks in several voices; one frame becomes a small gathering, and private recollection loosens into something shared. These photographs also carry the weight of their making. The camera is never neutral, and for working-class lives it was often distant—scarce, borrowed, delayed. What appears in the image is shaped by those conditions: who could be photographed, when, and under what light. The moment of photographing—its limits, its permissions, its relationships—becomes part of the work.