The war in former Yugoslavia in the 1990s is a history that resonates deeply. My Croatian grandparents fled an earlier war - World War II - and I saw how this new war reopened old wounds in my grandfather. His anger and grief made me aware, even as a child, of the deep scars that war leaves behind.

I delved into this history, trying to understand how such a horrific war could have unfolded. I consumed everything I could find - books, survivor testimonies from the Yugoslavia Tribunal, documentaries. On YouTube, I came across raw VHS footage showing destruction, death, and loss. The events I had read about were suddenly right in front of me. The endless stream of horrific recordings deeply unsettled me.

I didn’t know what to do with these images - only that I felt compelled to keep this history from fading, to keep it visible.

I thought of the textile work I inherited from my Croatian grandmother: delicate weavings, lacework, embroidery - made with time, care, and devotion. That tenderness stood in stark contrast to the images of violence, where, in an instant, everything so carefully built was wiped away.

This led me to the idea of projecting stills from war footage onto the textiles. Not only those from my grandmother, but also pieces gathered from across former Yugoslavia, representing Croatian, Bosnian, and Serbian heritage.

The act of projection itself is essential: the light that once illuminated these atrocities is now reflected again. It also allows for chance and experimentation - for images that only emerge in the moment.

I then photograph these projections, creating images that balance between beauty and violence, between stillness and confrontation. A quiet attempt to keep looking, not to turn away.