A letter to my father (Greek: Γράμμα στον πατέρα μου) is a digital narrative recounting an escape journey of a young woman. The narration takes place in a Box through the use of language and moving images. The Box - a relatively small space - is bursting with light, inviting the viewer to enter the experience and become the protagonist. This work is an attempt to infuse flesh into digital image and the image onto the flesh. A fractured surreal scenery comes to embrace the female body and obliterate its form from shame to celebration – praise.
The digital narrative took its final form in August 2018.
Dear Father; I am safe, heading towards land. It’s been ninety-one days now; ninety-one days conquered by the sea. Ninety-one days since I last saw your face, since I last slept in your arms. Ninety-one days exiled, isolated. Home became a faded memory; lack of home became my curse. I recall images, light resembling familiar light. It must be home; the sun feels the same, the breeze feels the same. It feels like November. It can’t still be November; my nails have grown. So I left no stones unturned, looking for traces to prove your existence. So I put my fingers, I lick every crack, hoping for soil to feel the same, taste the same. So I collect all the fragments and sew them into nests, holders of my past, holders of my space - my home is lying by your eyes - your eyes; the crypt of my paternal home. So I dream no more; when I dream I am ill. I dream no more. Dreaming became a privilege. A form of salvation; salvation is a privilege. I feel him sometimes you know. I try not to - my body; a shell, bones and flesh. My body; the space, scattered, nests; two heartbeats. Father, I am dead. And in the state of death I speak to you - the living - about the desolated end. My flesh became the surface I grew to call ground. My blood became the water I now drink; the same water that drowns soil, the same water that crushes the ground little by little; my blood became the kind of water that enables the universe to travel. My flesh as ground and my blood as water condemned me as a traveler. It’s been ninety-one days now. This journey seems vain. The same thirst for a familiar space is driving me away from space. I now crave for salvation; salvation is a privilege. You taught me that. I crave for a space that resembles you no more, for a nest made of branches that exile death; branches that recall known sounds, echoes of the past; only God once lived there. ’This is God’s will!’; disembodied voice; I can hear you. I still feel your hand irrigating my flesh with shame. Exiled. A Sinner. I was empty; It’s been ninety-one days away from home, my nails have grown, I became the ground, I became water. My body – the space; a structure, scattering my flesh apart every time I ignore my mortality. I am a mortal. No, I am a woman. My sinner body - nests - it’s been ninety-one days of nesting, ninety-one days of not dreaming; dreaming is a privilege, you taught me that. It’s been ninety-one days now, ninety-one days conquered by the sea. Ninety-one days since I last saw your face, since I last slept in your arms; away from you, away from your God, away from a city that keeps devouring me by stimulating my memories. Now, only remains of my once existence; remains forming shells that make me vulnerable to pain. So I speak words away from dawn and towards the shadows, while the rain washes the salt of the tears on my flesh. And everything I now see is rain. Everything I now smell is rain; salt and water. Oh holly water, how I lust after your salvation! Only you can wash my flesh, only you can shatter my shell, destroy the walls and forever guard the fragments in your depths; as they were your mother’s ashes; as they were forgotten possessions of your bygone loved one. Oh holly water, how I lust after your salvation! Feeling you between my legs, seizing life - seizing him inside me - keep him safe in your chest, adore him as I once adored him, let him grow wings, listen and sing along with his every single heartbeat; his heartbeat is a miracle, his heartbeat recalls pictures of land… Oh holly water, teach him to conceive beauty form chaos, and within chaotic beauty to assimilate the universe. Let him discover those illuminated spaces! All those spaces hidden in the attic, where maturity of the day obliterates fears. Talk to him about illuminated spaces that flow into the sea of lust - shields of lasting childhood staircases; scattered steps, leading to the highest lighthouse guarded by a keeper with veins mapping his hands. A crumbled old man, who mumbles stories about lost travelers; unfed, hungry for feeling the soil once again on their hands. Let him grow into that crumbled old man, a keeper with the greatest love for eyes who bear the sun; like his mother’s eyes; eyes that lust for light, lust for sun, lust for home. His mother is a mortal; his mother was a woman. Oh, Holly water how I lust after your salvation! Feeling you between my legs, seizing my structure, destroying my mortality. My identity prevents me from salvation. My nails have grown. I find myself where I began, I begin where I ended up. No stones left unturned; no cracks left unlicked. Dear father, it’s been ninety-one days. I am safe, heading towards land.