1.My interest lies in memory. How does our memory work? My memory is a dark and weightless something without contours into which everything falls and from which I somehow make a selection to create agglutinations of remembrances.
I love movies. They are like compressed lives in which I have to do nothing; amazing stories that unfold without me yet nonetheless with me, in my head and in front of me as flickering light.
Movies in my head. I always remember the little scenes, the specific moments in the film. As if the film coalesces at this precise moment; as if, for a particular moment, the film sets the framework. In Antichrist, it's the light in the forest scene with the deer, fox and birds; in Opening Night, it's the buoyancy of Gina Rowland's hair; in Twenty-nine Palms, the desert sand.
I want to capture the moments as they are: infinitely short and violent—violent in my head, because all the memories collapse together; they are a waterfall surrounded by blackness.
2. When I stand by the sea at night and the waves come at me as if they want to take me away, breaking ominously and loudly—I get scared. In this fear, I feel the emergence of a place. This place conveys a sense of home, and this home is what concerns me; it is what I want to communicate.
3. I find it interesting to open the refrigerator, or some other door—and tones of colour, for example, the mixture of 4 mg ultramarine blue, 0.5 mg cadmium red and 0.1 mg lemon yellow. Each colour has and conveys a specific vibrancy of relevance; it is of importance, for it is where communication begins.