A kind of homeland
a kind of homeland
Does anyone know the boundaries of their soul
to say I am me?
Whenever I try to rationalize what we understand as homeland, I remember this Bernardo Soares phrase. And I always come to the same conclusion: if I am unable to define who I am, how can I try to define who we are?
I find very difficult to feel belonging to a concrete homeland, represented by concise symbols, based on a language, a history and a handful of common topics.
After all, flags and hymns only define a territory that has evolved. The language also serves to express how different we are. I don’t have to feel part of the history of my ancestors, I am simply their product. Topics are just topics.
I usually feel like a stranger in my own country. I probably have more common things with a person who lives on the coast of any country than with someone who lives in the mountains, a few kilometers from my place. It’s very complex that two people have the same feeling when they hear the word homeland
In the same way as Bernardo Soares, Álvaro de Campos was a Portuguese poet who didn’t exist (he was a heteronym). He wrote "My country is where I am not". This approach from the poetic, of a man who didn’t exist, is the one that weaves this work.
"A kind of homeland" is my symbolic proposal of what I understand as homeland. These are photos from different regions, of several countries, that express what I feel about homeland: the summer heat, the humid night of a coastal city, an instant of light that will never be repeated, the geometry and the sea, always the sea, free of borders, in continuous renewal.
This approach is not political, not economic, it is not epic or romantic, it is not even philosophical. I feel the country in those moments when I don’t have to wonder who I am.
I‘m pleased to show you my homeland, small and fleeting, without borders but with gangways instead, like a lighthouse at night that brings me back to my place, although this place is not one in particular.