In the house where I grew up, there was a photograph which occasionally used to come in sight, installing itself at a spot in the house and then disappearing, and which, I think, has been imprinted on the minds of everyone in the household. Its edges were burnt. Up until this age, I have believed my father had rushed into that fire and saved that photograph. The fact that I don’t remember anyone telling me such a story seems to explain how I, myself, had ascribed this story to that photograph (or to the love between my father and my mother) and made myself believe it. To my surprise, the photograph was inflamed only at its edges within a suitcase, but somehow did not or could not get burned up. In time, the story of that photograph turned from the heroic romance of my father into the fascination of my mother’s photograph which had persevered against getting ruined and that fascination has, in these days, dragged me to trying to figure out the significance of two-person memory photographs for us, through love stories, lived or unlived, abortive or finished. For me, the most convenient way to try to figure it out was to darken the doors of some of my acquaintances, ask them about it and, of course, take photographs of their relationships with similar ones of theirs. On this journey, each love was another photograph and each photograph was another love. Thence, this series of photography could never come to an end and could never find a common answer to this question. It could only bear witness to the synergy of love and photography in the year 2010, in 14 distinct homes and for 14 distinct individuals.
Cemre Yesil / May 2012