I have an obsession with blood, with the invisible past running through my veins and capillaries, pumping through my heart.
I want to untwist the skeins of my own DNA, unravel the path that has brought it to me.
I want to map my face, draw borders around each region of resemblance.
I am driven by a compulsion to uncover my past, to draw the lines that silently exist between my mothers and fathers and myself. It is, in the end, a selfish quest – this is not for posterity, but for me. I operate subconsciously under the notion that locating the source of by blood will lead me to myself, a presumption that most likely has its flaws. By uncovering the invisible, unconscious and secret journey I took through my ancestors to this place, to this amalgamation of their bodies, hearts and minds, I will in some measure discover my true self.
By renaming all those long forgotten faces, I repopulate the world. I invert the order and rebirth my progenitors. By naming, I recreate life out of long-quiet death and forgetfulness. I name, enumerate, remember and we all live again – their blood is not mute within mine. But it isn’t just that.
By remembering, I form my own monument to those that made me. I owe them this much, to thank them, and to thank them by name.