And what is a window, I wonder, if not a grand frame? The window cuts the sky, framing a blue rectangle to dive into, like in a pool. But the best part is the view. Not the view from the window, but the one passersby and neighbors have of me. Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to my show.

I was born in a country that no longer exists, I often say. It’s not true, because the country where I was born hadn’t ceased to exist. It had simply been hidden under a red handkerchief.

Filming the scars of migrant people. Bodies leaping into the void, bodies swimming fully clothed in the sea, strange fruits, porcelains, still lifes. Scars as journeys. Legal identity documents. Does the image recognize us all? Do the stories recognize us all?