Every crease in the paper carries with it a memory of a past moment. The moment my hands touched him and the pressure created between them. They will not return to their original shape, even after the pressure stops.

Holding a sheet of white paper with both hands.
Slowly, creasing it, compressing all the open strands, squeezing sensitively. At a certain point in time – stops, looks at the randomness of the folds, is interested in the small fragments that occurred in the paper fibers, looks at the distorted structure, the way mountains, valleys, hills and valleys were formed. Of the newspaper. True typography. Follows the fold of the fold, trying to chart the launch points. Examines the curves and bends of the paper back.
A simple and modest paper that contains so many opportunities, for new beginnings, for moments not yet written, for sketches that have not been drawn. Paper that can easily be one thing, a magazine, a book, a newspaper, etc. In the time we live in, that things around us are going digital, I wanted to preserve the temporary, temporary and fleeting moment with the newspaper. Once I take a page that I no longer need, that I made a mistake on, or that no longer matters to me. Crushes, wrinkles, shrinks and throws it away. I stop myself, leave it to myself and begin to explore the various possibilities inherent in the fold.