You know those old posters in the subway—layered, weathered, half–peeled and slowly dissolving into time? The ones that collect dust, graffiti, scratches, and accidental marks from passing strangers. Over time, they stop being just paper. They become a document of presence, of erosion, of hundreds of small interactions that were never meant to matter, yet somehow do. This work grew from that feeling. Except here, the subway isn’t a station under a city—it’s the archive inside my mind. And the poster isn’t advertising anything. It’s memory. The image is made of two very different moments in my life: one distant, blurred by time; the other much more recent, still raw and alive. They overlap, interrupt each other, fade in and out—just like memories do. Some details have disappeared. Others have become sharper than they ever were in real life. The brain has its own hierarchy of importance, and time negotiates with it constantly. On the right side, what looks like a city is a mixture of printed fragments, paint, accidental marks, erasures, and invented shadows. Some things are real, parts of printed images, others are imagined. Some areas collapse into abstraction, others suddenly click into clarity. If you stare long enough, your mind begins to complete the image on its own—filling the gaps, solving the mystery, reconstructing meaning that isn’t technically there. Like memory, it becomes a collaboration: between what actually happened and what remains. 70 x 100 x 3 cm Plaster on wooden support, transfer print, metal bars, paint and coffee, 2025.