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13 x 18 cm

Acrylic, conte crayon, pencil & ballpoint pen on photograph


Waiting, yes we are just waiting here because we have nowhere else to go. The houses that we left are not our homes and neither is this temporary shelter many miles away. A few more months and the memories of our homes will start to fade and blur, so that we will only be able to recall events and occurrences that took place there, just dimly seeing the faces of our families. In truth the memories of the buildings, the dwellings are the first to fade. No home now, no house either, nowhere to think that we can fully rest. No plans for the future are made because our future is not certain; we are not certain where we will be. As people we have stopped constantly traveling and seasonally migrating, generations on generations ago. All but a few traditional and hardy peoples now migrate willingly; even then, they at least have somewhere to go. Some point to aim for. Some kind of plan has been made. Picturing in their minds what lies ahead. We however are just waiting, for days we have just been here, with no control of where to go. Freedom, yes, but it is unwanted. Waiting for a home.

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