The picture on the left, might be missing but also the original albums these black pages came from, the order in which they once were, and the context , the full context, of who are these people, how are they related and where are they coming from. In some way left missing is the left overs of other left overs. For a while now I’ve being collecting found footage, discarded images that once belonged to family archives, and repurpose them giving them a new meaning and a place in my own work. Many of the black album pages are useless in a way if not taken apart and the images used separately. I was discouraged from breaking them apart but also didn’t know exactly what to do with them, so they were left aside. Now that they have accumulated into a critical mass I started seeing how I can insert myself into this very specific, already made, compositions of someone else’s history. The images that didn’t make it through time, fell apart and got lost and are now missing from the black album pages essentially left the door open for me to play off of these partial compositions. Furthermore, the cut out text strips that once made a clear sense in the context of a certain family but now these fragmented pieces of discontinued memories make a new sense in a photo fantasmic context. left missing chains together unrelated family album pages to tell, internationally, a partial photographic story that can never
Over the last few years I have been sending my work to different websites, grants, publications, competitions, exhibitions and more. Along side some great opportunities and success I encountered a lot of rejection. After a period of several month of rejection after rejection, I started to doubt myself and my work. I was on the bus, on my way back home. I was thinking about this for few months that were filled with rejections. I was speaking to my husband (Yoav Friedlander, also an artist) about my idea to make something out of all of these rejection letters that I had in my inbox. It started as kind of a joke – about making art out of rejection, and the more I thought about it, the more it made sense to do it. I went and looked back at all the emails I've sent over the years – and started to flag some of the letters. Many letters I couldn't use, as they never responded (which is also a form of rejection , yet not one I could have worked with). What people don't know is that, the book might “only” have 13 letters, but in fact I sent submissions to over 300 places in the last few years. I decided to use wall paint swatch colors from Home Depot, first because they are free and easy to get, but also because they hold so much potential in them- The color swatches are titled with promises, some kind of hidden dreams painted with different shades and unique colors. These rejection letters are all the same, none of them are unique, special or more important. The fan format allows you to look at them in no real order, you see them all at once.The fan allows a flow , a different kind of read. I liked the idea that they are all connected in one place – a small grounded place – what keeps it all together from falling apart I wanted to make something that I could look at and not only be inspired by it, but will make me happy. This book was not made out of anger towards the rejecting places, but more from a place of self-doubt and trying to reclaim my artists passion. After I made it, I sent it, as a replay to the original rejection letter, to all the places I used in my Book – wanting to share this with them, inform them and just to see their reaction. Some places never responded, but the places that did respond loved it and actually thanks me which was crazy by itself. The reaction I got online from people was mostly really amazing. People have been contacting me to actually purchase it (something I wasn't expecting) and in addition to say that the book inspired them to carry on, to submit to more places and felt that they are not alone in this situation.
My family roots back to England, but I was born in Israel. I was a child on a fence; a daughter to a migrating family. The house within culturally stayed European but outside was the Israeli controversial culture. I always felt a misfit with my partial incomplete identity; torn apart between parents who have never blended in to the Middle Eastern culture I felt only half belonged too. Over the years I have heard of my parent’s memories and stories. I remember hearing of snow, youth and happiness. Stories of happier days. The stories held on to the memories of time and culture that I wasn’t a part of, and portraits of family members that always remained anonymous to me and their faces where no more distinct than any other person in generic photo album. These stories were supposed to be my heritage. As I grew up I’ve started to question photography’s function as my memory, as my family heritage. My photographic practice chains together straight and still life photography, found footage from my family history and imagery from family albums. Using photography I've conducted an examination of my history. Due to the migration of my family from England to Israel that history discontinued, and therefore I find it hard do consider it as mine. In order to regain my history I’ve appropriated images, along with ones that I have made myself, and edited them into a book titled “cache memory”. The statement that represents the book is the definition of its title – cache memory. The decision to name the book and present it through this definition is handed down as recognition of what is hidden in photographs, coded and read through context; that photographs can unfold memories but not necessarily the same ones that were originally embedded in them. I’m researching a history that I don’t see as actually mine; Family memories that I am not part of. The images become objects that I use in order to create a new history and memory of my own; people and places as I would like to remember and understand them. I started not only looking for my identity in the old photos but also reflect my feelings from these photos on to the world around me. I look for Moments and objects were there is a tension that is created by their incomplete aesthetic. Photography allows me to look at the little and unimportant objects around me and make them a part of my history just by giving them attention. By looking at them I capture them to remember, not letting them go away, yet not trying to save them. Watching their last seconds before I leave and the moment becomes irrelevant, capturing their last breath. With my camera I grant them with eternity and in that I grant myself a memory.
The Dead Sea is a salt lake with no way out. Surrounding this unique lake grew an industry of pleasure, beauty, healing and myth. People come from all over the world to experience the wonder of the Dead Sea. Kibuts Kalia is one of many small cooperative settlements, hotels and resorts, along the sea that have tried to form a haven from the desert’s abyss. Kalia was well known for their water amusement park, the Atraktzia (attraction – word that was borrowed from English), as an oasis of sweet water in the sea of death. Many Israeli’s share memories of Atraktzia as part of their tradition of family vacations and weekends. I have never had the chance of experiencing Kalia’s Atraktzia myself, and yet I grew up knowing of a miraculous fantastic oasis in the middle of nowhere. Years after, In one of my trips down south I had my first encounter with Atraktzia. It was hot, dry and colorless, a pale refection of its past glory. Te once amazing water park stood empty, abandon and waterless. Afer doing some research it came to my knowledge that in the year 2000 the water park was shutdown due to the politic tension in the area as well as financial and legal problems. Since then, for 13 years, it stands empty. Te stories of others , on which i based my memories , of the place I have never visited , were far from the place I could have now see for myself. And yet, I still feel nostalgic in regards to the fall of the attractions from its glory; not owning even one true memory of Atraktzia haven’t prevented me from yearning its past. As I photographed the park it became smaller, paler and lifeless. In this body of work I do not try to recreate the park, or resurrect it, but document a place that so many people had strong feeling to, as children, and try and understand that glorious period that me myself had never got to experience.