Following a vague memory, at the age of three, writing in my father’s cigarette pack; the letters were not symbols of secrets to touch with second thoughts; instead they were my ancestors. Before schooling started, the art stimulus of literature started a clunky dialogue with a freak world of images and vice versa; a camera confused my clear mind with new realities, freed my body and my senses through expensive lenses. As I remember with my eyes, media representation full of drama improvisation, subjectivity versus collective memory, all was aspects of a dream of the dreams. It looked like a celebration, a fiesta with a lot of guests, drinks and cookies. Later, I discovered the emancipation, the freedom to realize that unconscious matters along with seemingly rational choices, neither notion calls for authenticity; normality is standing behind the wing curtains on each side of a colourful stage which resembles the universe; this stage could specify mutually the actors and the world itself, the players of globalisation including myself who quit smoking one afternoon along the Thames.
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