Living far away from my native house in the countryside of Latvia for a long time, I acknowledged that I tend to personify the place I am coming from as a living being, the source of my existence. The distance fuelled fears of unstoppable vanishing of time and memories. It seemed that by being away physically, I had neglected a part of myself as well. The Frozen Imprints reviews intimate evidence on the endlessness of past events. Proof of this is based on a few imprints of the past: a stone wall of the native house with a bricked up window, the staircase leading to the roof of the house and even higher, letters written with Indian ink telling about migratory birds, flowers in the front-house garden withering away before the frost... They are so frigid in the photograph like a branch frozen in ice. Like a stone built in a stone wall.

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