In 1984 I was searching for my photographic language.

I was working on small, rough sketchbooks.

This way I resisted the clean perfection of professional photography

and at the same time I created a protected space for myself in which I could deal

with the shortcomings of my photography.

One of these sketchbooks looked almost like a family album.

On the left side, on both images, my mother.

On the right side, her little sister.

Both of them commited suicide.

First my mother,

Some years later, her sister.

My parents, just married.

Thex could have been happy.

Maybe they were, for a while.