Last summer as I rode the train, I took pictures from a window. During each travel, a lot of joy filled me in, as soon as I photographed the moving landscapes. Riding at this speed, resulting pictures can easily become uncertain. Paradoxically, we see better through these photographs.
I have found the refuge of my past. To flee the oppression of the anguish I had this fantasy: leaving right straight ahead of me, always to the north. I was alone riding my horse. I was a man. An oriental woman, such as myself, is too frightened of everything. I was passing through countries. Wild lands, mountains, rivers and villages… Pages of my children’s books flying by in front of my very eyes, and the drawings of my poetry books with their colored pencils.
There are ghosts which slip by and infiltrate at the ends of us only to surface one day, through fleeting visions of memory. They are hallucinated landscapes.