Here at the door appears a man, in his hand he has a tray, he puts it on the table two children and a woman sit down around it. Sequences of images bathed in yellow, warm light are the individual acts of the same production entitled ‘Life’. After dusk the windows turn into little stages on which actors act out their evenings.
The best place for this kind of training is Holland where people, convinced of their utter innocence, do not use curtains. It photographed for me a part of the world through a black closed space with a microscopic pupil through which light sneaks inside. Like that camera obscura I once made out of a shoebox. I often dreamed of watching without being seen. In an extract from her newly translated book Flights – a novel intertwining travel narratives, human anatomy and reflections on life and death – acclaimed Polish writer Olga Tokarczuk voyages to the past, capturing the moments, exchanges and fleeting tableux that compose life, then and now.
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