In the project Prole Interference I revisit my archive—my photo project Letters from Childhood—and look anew at my earlier photographs made in 2009. I reflect on how technologies such as artificial intelligence and neural networks are reshaping our lives. The work takes the form of an installation that deliberately abandons the archive’s material artefacts (photo paper, film) in favour of pure light and code, emphasizing how fragile our memories can be. The images exist only as long as the projector remains on. They are spectral and ephemeral, like memory itself. This radical gesture allows me to address another key theme: the impact of memory on consciousness. The layering of projections becomes a direct metaphor—memories can overlap, generating new ones that are distorted and sometimes false. Blur and “double exposure” emerge here not at the moment of capture, but at the moment of the viewer’s perception, making the viewer a co-author of the process. Where we once simply looked at a work of art, we now affect it through our presence. Memory is no longer something we observe from the outside; it is something we inhabit—and something we alter by being there. As the viewer moves into the installation, their shadows become part of the piece. It is a dialogue in the most literal sense.

In the 2009 project, I experienced digital tools as a threat to the disappearance of physical media, and I turned exclusively to film, chemical developers, and paper printing as a refuge for my memories. In the new project, digital technologies do not revive our memories so much as simulate them in real time. In this way, I attempt to materialize the act of remembering itself—compulsive, imperfect, and capable of distorting reality beyond recognition. What you see are not images of my childhood, but the ghosts of those images, produced by digital technologies and by longing for what has been lost. This work is about the fear of one’s own history coming apart, and about our desire to reanimate it even if the result is unsettling. You may feel anxiety—that is a normal response. You are entering a landscape of memory, and it is rarely comfortable.