On a sidewalk in Rotterdam, I found a large stack of discarded slides, dusty Kodak boxes filled with nearly a thousand photographs, abandoned among other belongings, moments away from being destroyed by a garbage truck. Unable to let them be lost, I took them home.
Later that day, after the garbage truck had passed, I noticed small remnants still scattered on the pavement: a broken Christmas ornament, a mourning card still sealed in its envelope, a torn dictionary page where the word 'boedel' (estate, belongings) stood out like an omen. I gathered them up, like an archaeologist collecting fragments of a forgotten life.
The slides revealed beautifully composed images of journeys to faraway places: temples, markets, pyramids, oil rigs, vast deserts, captured more than half a century ago. But what intrigued me most were the self-portraits: a man, always alone, carefully positioning himself, reading on a terrace, leaning against a tree at the Taj Mahal, crouching tenderly beside a flower bed. He is mostly looking away from the camera, appearing absorbed in his surroundings.
Who was he? Why did he take the time to photograph himself, with such care and intent, in an era when self-portraits required effort and planning? Why did he travel alone? Were these moments meant to be shared with someone back home, or were they only for himself? Did these objects belong to him?
Although I’ll never know the answers, I formed a connection with this man.
In 'Phantom Traces', his self-portraits intertwine with the found objects in poetic, intuitive combinations. Photographed against colored backgrounds reminiscent of archival pages, the objects become relics of an unknown life. Together, they form a quiet reflection on memory, impermanence, and what remains, even when the carefully preserved fragments of a life end up on the street.
