This work both orders the world and exaggerates its chaos. With the camera on a tripod, I take many photos, leave in the best ones and omit the rest. The photographs are composed but they have not been changed, only selected. My work is about the strangeness of time, about how people really look, and about the surprising world that is only visible with a camera. I want to capture more life, more people, more time, and more truth in my photographs. Photography, with its ability to record everything in front of the lens, is just the beginning of this process. Selected People is inspired by surveillance photography, Walker Evans’s hidden-camera subway portraits, and P.L. di Corcia’s Head series; works in which the camera waits for its subjects to come into view. My work also looks at city life from a fixed position, with the difference that each image contains an hour’s time and is a composition of hundreds of exposures. To do this, I put the camera on a tripod, and take hundreds of pictures as people pass by. Back in the studio, I choose what to leave in and make no further alterations. The process mirrors the way the mind focuses attention on one thing but not on another. A person thinking about photography, for example, tends to notice people with cameras over those without. This kind of selection allows me to take objective facts–the faces and bodies of people on the street–and make something new and more subjective out of them, simply by sorting them. Above all, I want to show a surprising world that is visible only with a camera.

This work both orders the world and exaggerates its chaos. With the camera on a tripod, I take many photos, leave in the best ones and omit the rest. The photographs are composed but they have not been changed, only selected. My work is about the strangeness of time, about how people really look, and about the surprising world that is only visible with a camera. I want to capture more life, more people, more time, and more truth in my photographs. Photography, with its ability to record everything in front of the lens, is just the beginning of this process. Selected People is inspired by surveillance photography, Walker Evans’s hidden-camera subway portraits, and P.L. di Corcia’s Head series; works in which the camera waits for its subjects to come into view. My work also looks at city life from a fixed position, with the difference that each image contains an hour’s time and is a composition of hundreds of exposures. To do this, I put the camera on a tripod, and take hundreds of pictures as people pass by. Back in the studio, I choose what to leave in and make no further alterations. The process mirrors the way the mind focuses attention on one thing but not on another. A person thinking about photography, for example, tends to notice people with cameras over those without. This kind of selection allows me to take objective facts–the faces and bodies of people on the street–and make something new and more subjective out of them, simply by sorting them. Above all, I want to show a surprising world that is visible only with a camera.

In 2013, Andrea Dorliguzzo started with his rephotography project Roma Ieri Oggi (Rome Yesterday Today). Driven by his passion for photography and his admiration for Rome, he started to collect old photographs of the city and combined these with contemporary ones, taken at exactly the same spot. In this way, the past and the present are brought together, causing a thrilling historical sensation which reminds us of all the great stories that the city has to tell. 

In 2013, Andrea Dorliguzzo started with his rephotography project Roma Ieri Oggi (Rome Yesterday Today). Driven by his passion for photography and his admiration for Rome, he started to collect old photographs of the city and combined these with contemporary ones, taken at exactly the same spot. In this way, the past and the present are brought together, causing a thrilling historical sensation which reminds us of all the great stories that the city has to tell. 

At home I always used to linger with curiosity at an old photograph of some of my Andalusian relatives. With the passing of years this photograph has given me an image of how I think Andalusia might be.

Al-Andalus is the result of approximately three years of research in the south of Spain, an area I did not know nor in which I have lived, but which is my family’s place of origin and current place of residence.

My initial interest was in the tension I perceived between tradition and the marks of the global world. Andalusia is the result of a complex cultural stratification, derived from the passage of civilisations which, over time, gave life to a hybrid identity capable of containing within it the stereotypical traits of Spanish culture.

Journeying through Andalusia now that it has been hit hard by the economic crisis has made me reflect on the collision of the diverse elements in this land – a land which, as I see it, has shown itself to be hanging in the balance, almost in a state between reality and fiction as the background of a movie.

My intention has not been to reproduce the tangible aspects of a place, but to give shape to a body of memories and impressions born of my personal history or of something unconcluded. Concentrated in the images are visible apparitions whose existence is a mystery, while on the other hand, the mystery is something real in the mind, through the repeating, varying, developing and transposing elements of the memory.

At home I always used to linger with curiosity at an old photograph of some of my Andalusian relatives. With the passing of years this photograph has given me an image of how I think Andalusia might be.

Al-Andalus is the result of approximately three years of research in the south of Spain, an area I did not know nor in which I have lived, but which is my family’s place of origin and current place of residence.

My initial interest was in the tension I perceived between tradition and the marks of the global world. Andalusia is the result of a complex cultural stratification, derived from the passage of civilisations which, over time, gave life to a hybrid identity capable of containing within it the stereotypical traits of Spanish culture.

Journeying through Andalusia now that it has been hit hard by the economic crisis has made me reflect on the collision of the diverse elements in this land – a land which, as I see it, has shown itself to be hanging in the balance, almost in a state between reality and fiction as the background of a movie.

My intention has not been to reproduce the tangible aspects of a place, but to give shape to a body of memories and impressions born of my personal history or of something unconcluded. Concentrated in the images are visible apparitions whose existence is a mystery, while on the other hand, the mystery is something real in the mind, through the repeating, varying, developing and transposing elements of the memory.

In Uganda, by the beginning of the nineties, corpses kept piling up in the morgues and nobody knew what was going on. During the days when it seemed like hope had escaped that land, a few HIV positive women decided to bring it back, not for them but for their children. That is how NACWOLA (National Community of Women Living with HIV/AIDS) was born, during the International Conference on AIDS held in Amsterdam in 1992. The three founding members died of AIDS during the following years, but their legacy was a ray of light in the darkest days. With the help of European health and psychology professionals, the decided to put in writing what they would never be able to tell their children, and they created the Memory Books. These books are their recollections, they tell us about them and the future they want for their children n pages full of words of care and affection. They are motherhood guides from beyond, survival tutorials for lost children, since over 12% of Sub-Saharan underage population will lose at least one of their parents in the next 12 months, and they will be on their own. As Gladys, the person in charge of the Memory Books project in Luwero, the center of the country, tell us: "They are each special and very personal, in spite of following a common pattern that includes family photos, memories and a family tree. With these books we encourage parents to listen to their children, to talk to them frankly about their disease."

The project is like a big family with members helping each other emotionally and financially in their daily struggle for survival. Mothers, orphans and grandmothers, many of them displaced by the internal war with the LRA (Lord's Resistance Army). In a country where 35% of the population is HIV positive, where there are two million orphans, a country in which polygamy and dowry are common practice, these women are struggling against the AIDS stigma and are not afraid of anything. NACWOLA and the project have given them back hope.

In Uganda, by the beginning of the nineties, corpses kept piling up in the morgues and nobody knew what was going on. During the days when it seemed like hope had escaped that land, a few HIV positive women decided to bring it back, not for them but for their children. That is how NACWOLA (National Community of Women Living with HIV/AIDS) was born, during the International Conference on AIDS held in Amsterdam in 1992. The three founding members died of AIDS during the following years, but their legacy was a ray of light in the darkest days. With the help of European health and psychology professionals, the decided to put in writing what they would never be able to tell their children, and they created the Memory Books. These books are their recollections, they tell us about them and the future they want for their children n pages full of words of care and affection. They are motherhood guides from beyond, survival tutorials for lost children, since over 12% of Sub-Saharan underage population will lose at least one of their parents in the next 12 months, and they will be on their own. As Gladys, the person in charge of the Memory Books project in Luwero, the center of the country, tell us: "They are each special and very personal, in spite of following a common pattern that includes family photos, memories and a family tree. With these books we encourage parents to listen to their children, to talk to them frankly about their disease."

The project is like a big family with members helping each other emotionally and financially in their daily struggle for survival. Mothers, orphans and grandmothers, many of them displaced by the internal war with the LRA (Lord's Resistance Army). In a country where 35% of the population is HIV positive, where there are two million orphans, a country in which polygamy and dowry are common practice, these women are struggling against the AIDS stigma and are not afraid of anything. NACWOLA and the project have given them back hope.

In the autumn of 1985, a series of violent and bloody robberies of Belgian supermarkets abruptly came to an end. A group of unknown criminals, referred to as ´The Gang of Nivelles´, was held responsible for these heinous acts. Between March 1982 and November 1985, the Gang of Nivelles committed twenty-three robberies and other crimes.

In all, twenty-eight people were killed.

My father was one of them.

The excessive violence used by the gang, was out of all proportion to the modest loot of 175,000 euros. In spite of a thorough police investigation, a file of almost three million pages, found evidence and witness accounts, the perpetrators were never apprehended. This period of terror and violence will remain one of the darkest pages in Belgian history.

In the autumn of 1985, a series of violent and bloody robberies of Belgian supermarkets abruptly came to an end. A group of unknown criminals, referred to as ´The Gang of Nivelles´, was held responsible for these heinous acts. Between March 1982 and November 1985, the Gang of Nivelles committed twenty-three robberies and other crimes.

In all, twenty-eight people were killed.

My father was one of them.

The excessive violence used by the gang, was out of all proportion to the modest loot of 175,000 euros. In spite of a thorough police investigation, a file of almost three million pages, found evidence and witness accounts, the perpetrators were never apprehended. This period of terror and violence will remain one of the darkest pages in Belgian history.

A girl and her room

A Girl and Her Room was inspired by my oldest daughter, then 15, who was no longer a carefree child.  She was shifting into adulthood incrementally before my eyes.  After photographing her with her girlfriends, I realized I wanted to capture each young woman by herself in her own environment: her bedroom.  The room was a metaphor, an extension of the girl, but also the girl seemed to be part of the room, to fit in just like everything else in the material and emotional space she created.

While I initially focused on teenage girls in the United States, I eventually expanded the project to include girls from the other world I experienced myself as a young woman: the Middle East. This is how this project became personal to me. The beauty, dreams, vulnerability and strength of these young women, regardless of place, background and religion, were beautifully universal and deeply moving.

Being with those young women in the privacy of their world gave me a unique peek into their private lives and their inner selves. They sensed that I was not judging them and became an active part of the project. Their frankness and generosity in sharing access was a privilege that they have extended to me but also to all the viewers of this work.

A girl and her room

A Girl and Her Room was inspired by my oldest daughter, then 15, who was no longer a carefree child.  She was shifting into adulthood incrementally before my eyes.  After photographing her with her girlfriends, I realized I wanted to capture each young woman by herself in her own environment: her bedroom.  The room was a metaphor, an extension of the girl, but also the girl seemed to be part of the room, to fit in just like everything else in the material and emotional space she created.

While I initially focused on teenage girls in the United States, I eventually expanded the project to include girls from the other world I experienced myself as a young woman: the Middle East. This is how this project became personal to me. The beauty, dreams, vulnerability and strength of these young women, regardless of place, background and religion, were beautifully universal and deeply moving.

Being with those young women in the privacy of their world gave me a unique peek into their private lives and their inner selves. They sensed that I was not judging them and became an active part of the project. Their frankness and generosity in sharing access was a privilege that they have extended to me but also to all the viewers of this work.

I remember the joy of discovering Haribo jellies, Nutella and margarine among colorful clothes packed in heavy cardboard boxes we used to get from relatives who lived in West Germany, when Poland was lacking many basic things. It was a celebration, the whole family was present for these grand openings of gift boxes.

The clothes, mostly second-hand, were good enough for mother. She never felt the need to buy new ones, preferring to save money for more important expenses. She always looked modest and didn’t like black. Some say that what one wears is (a) part of creating one’s identity. My mother, all her life, wore clothes that she had never chosen.

On February 28, 2012, four years after her death, I started reliving the past. My work since then has been about building on my memories and longing. Self-Portrait With My Mother is an attempt to summarize that period, to move beyond the past -a final reconciliation with reality.

My grandmother’s house –where my mother, my sister and me (all) grew up– is empty and cold now, almost in ruins. This is where I’ve kept my mother’s clothes since she died. And now after my grandmother passed away, it’s where I’ve been making these self-portraits, recreating dresses and outfits from memory, like my mother used to match them. I recently tried on a different set of clothes that came in one of those big boxes many years ago. I found her blond hair on the green coat.

Home clothes. I remember her sitting at the piano, focused, her hand tapping the rhythm, patiently listening to the rattle of her students, and I can still hear her gentle voice: let’s repeat this fragment. How was she able to listen to that; I do not know till this day. My sister and I would leave the house after a few minutes.

Wedding clothes. I am 7 years old, the early nineties, cousin’s wedding, 150 guests; Most of them I don’t know. I am stuffing my mouth with a cake while watching my parents dancing to a bad version of Krawczyk’s song. My mother loved to dance and she was good at it. They looked great together, understanding without words. She did not like this type of feasts. Chatting with relatives, whom you see only at weddings and funerals. What to talk to them about? It’s much better to dance and send smiles.

Work clothes. Small, badly furnished office in No 2 Primary School, that both I and my sister attended. On the door “The Principal of After School Activities”. Mum at her desk, writing a report regarding achievements of "Alkatras"(a club for youngsters with problems) and “Orlik” (club for children and teenagers) for a meeting (meeting) with the town mayor. I'm waiting patiently in the corner; I want to walk home with her.

For the journey clothes. The departure day. Crowd on the platform. I am clasping my mum's and sister's hands. Suddenly I am rising. It's my mum passing me to my dad through the compartment's window. I am followed by two suitcases. My mum and sister somehow join us. It's crowded and stuffy and it will be like that for the next 14 hours. However, a 2 week seaside holiday is worth it. Mum has prepared sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes and tea in a 'Wyborowa' vodka bottle. We have 'Happy Minutes' ( a children's puzzle magazine in communist Poland). She loves the sea. She travels lost in her thoughts. I think she can already smell the sea and hear the waves and screeching seagulls. Her blue dress may be made from cheap material, but it doesn't crease and dries in 2 minutes - perfect for such journeys.

Christmas clothes. It’s Christmas Eve. Mom is busy in the kitchen, taking golden carp out of the oven carefully, to not stain herself with the hot butter. She is even wearing makeup, green, to match the outfit. She’s happy. She loves Christmas. After dinner, she is sitting at the piano and we all are singing Christmas carols.

Weekend clothes. Sunny day. The whole family sits in my grandmother’s garden, sausages on the grill, twittering birds, laughter, conversation. In this dress, my mother always smiled, relaxed. She wore it only on sunny days, free from work.

Kindergarten clothes. At the coal mine's kindergarten she would prepare the little ones for many performances. She would teach them songs about beloved mothers, the blackened faces of miners or brave marching Polish soldiers. She knew a song for every occasion. She wore blouses with big geometric patterns for the children. They loved her, the happy plump lady who, with rosy cheeks, accompanied their singing on the piano in front of their proud parents.

Sunday best clothes. It's Saint George's day. The whole family goes to the church fair. First we check out stands full of plastic toys, then the shooting range where dad manages to win mum a bunch of garish, fake flowers. Pink candy floss can't be missed. My sister and I have to stamp our feet to get it, as it's not healthy and bad for our teeth. But mum always gives in and on top of this grandma gives us two 'golden' rings with pink 'gems'. Total bliss. After the merry-go-round, we plead for one more go, just one more. And then we're going back, bangers going off in the background, mum, dad and grandma are happy, chatty; my sister is playing a toy whistle; and me with a mandatory baloon tied to my wrist.

Winter clothes. She would leave for work in darkness; we would all be still asleep. She would take a red bus to her work at the music school. We didn’t have a car. Waiting for the bus, bitter cold, the uncertainty whether it would come or not, shifting from foot to foot. On the way back she would do the shoppings. She would move slowly with the heavy bags, being careful not to slip. Freezing cold, with a red nose and cheeks, she would enter the house. Every night her soaked black boots would stand in a puddle of melted snow under a radiator in the kitchen.

Holiday clothes. It's summer. Apart from the intensively bright sun and the smell of freshly brewed coffee, mum's voice wakes us up. I have a quick peek through the curtains, the wash must have been hung outside early in the morning, it looks completely dry. I cannot see anyone, but I know she's there. I crane my neck and I am just able to make out blonde locks and cigarette smoke. The morning 'gossip' with the neighbours is in full swing. Bare-footed and in pyjamas my sister and I jump (out) on the balcony and join the discussion. We love summer. For two months we have our mum to ourselves, because of the summer holiday.

I remember the joy of discovering Haribo jellies, Nutella and margarine among colorful clothes packed in heavy cardboard boxes we used to get from relatives who lived in West Germany, when Poland was lacking many basic things. It was a celebration, the whole family was present for these grand openings of gift boxes.

The clothes, mostly second-hand, were good enough for mother. She never felt the need to buy new ones, preferring to save money for more important expenses. She always looked modest and didn’t like black. Some say that what one wears is (a) part of creating one’s identity. My mother, all her life, wore clothes that she had never chosen.

On February 28, 2012, four years after her death, I started reliving the past. My work since then has been about building on my memories and longing. Self-Portrait With My Mother is an attempt to summarize that period, to move beyond the past -a final reconciliation with reality.

My grandmother’s house –where my mother, my sister and me (all) grew up– is empty and cold now, almost in ruins. This is where I’ve kept my mother’s clothes since she died. And now after my grandmother passed away, it’s where I’ve been making these self-portraits, recreating dresses and outfits from memory, like my mother used to match them. I recently tried on a different set of clothes that came in one of those big boxes many years ago. I found her blond hair on the green coat.

Home clothes. I remember her sitting at the piano, focused, her hand tapping the rhythm, patiently listening to the rattle of her students, and I can still hear her gentle voice: let’s repeat this fragment. How was she able to listen to that; I do not know till this day. My sister and I would leave the house after a few minutes.

Wedding clothes. I am 7 years old, the early nineties, cousin’s wedding, 150 guests; Most of them I don’t know. I am stuffing my mouth with a cake while watching my parents dancing to a bad version of Krawczyk’s song. My mother loved to dance and she was good at it. They looked great together, understanding without words. She did not like this type of feasts. Chatting with relatives, whom you see only at weddings and funerals. What to talk to them about? It’s much better to dance and send smiles.

Work clothes. Small, badly furnished office in No 2 Primary School, that both I and my sister attended. On the door “The Principal of After School Activities”. Mum at her desk, writing a report regarding achievements of "Alkatras"(a club for youngsters with problems) and “Orlik” (club for children and teenagers) for a meeting (meeting) with the town mayor. I'm waiting patiently in the corner; I want to walk home with her.

For the journey clothes. The departure day. Crowd on the platform. I am clasping my mum's and sister's hands. Suddenly I am rising. It's my mum passing me to my dad through the compartment's window. I am followed by two suitcases. My mum and sister somehow join us. It's crowded and stuffy and it will be like that for the next 14 hours. However, a 2 week seaside holiday is worth it. Mum has prepared sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes and tea in a 'Wyborowa' vodka bottle. We have 'Happy Minutes' ( a children's puzzle magazine in communist Poland). She loves the sea. She travels lost in her thoughts. I think she can already smell the sea and hear the waves and screeching seagulls. Her blue dress may be made from cheap material, but it doesn't crease and dries in 2 minutes - perfect for such journeys.

Christmas clothes. It’s Christmas Eve. Mom is busy in the kitchen, taking golden carp out of the oven carefully, to not stain herself with the hot butter. She is even wearing makeup, green, to match the outfit. She’s happy. She loves Christmas. After dinner, she is sitting at the piano and we all are singing Christmas carols.

Weekend clothes. Sunny day. The whole family sits in my grandmother’s garden, sausages on the grill, twittering birds, laughter, conversation. In this dress, my mother always smiled, relaxed. She wore it only on sunny days, free from work.

Kindergarten clothes. At the coal mine's kindergarten she would prepare the little ones for many performances. She would teach them songs about beloved mothers, the blackened faces of miners or brave marching Polish soldiers. She knew a song for every occasion. She wore blouses with big geometric patterns for the children. They loved her, the happy plump lady who, with rosy cheeks, accompanied their singing on the piano in front of their proud parents.

Sunday best clothes. It's Saint George's day. The whole family goes to the church fair. First we check out stands full of plastic toys, then the shooting range where dad manages to win mum a bunch of garish, fake flowers. Pink candy floss can't be missed. My sister and I have to stamp our feet to get it, as it's not healthy and bad for our teeth. But mum always gives in and on top of this grandma gives us two 'golden' rings with pink 'gems'. Total bliss. After the merry-go-round, we plead for one more go, just one more. And then we're going back, bangers going off in the background, mum, dad and grandma are happy, chatty; my sister is playing a toy whistle; and me with a mandatory baloon tied to my wrist.

Winter clothes. She would leave for work in darkness; we would all be still asleep. She would take a red bus to her work at the music school. We didn’t have a car. Waiting for the bus, bitter cold, the uncertainty whether it would come or not, shifting from foot to foot. On the way back she would do the shoppings. She would move slowly with the heavy bags, being careful not to slip. Freezing cold, with a red nose and cheeks, she would enter the house. Every night her soaked black boots would stand in a puddle of melted snow under a radiator in the kitchen.

Holiday clothes. It's summer. Apart from the intensively bright sun and the smell of freshly brewed coffee, mum's voice wakes us up. I have a quick peek through the curtains, the wash must have been hung outside early in the morning, it looks completely dry. I cannot see anyone, but I know she's there. I crane my neck and I am just able to make out blonde locks and cigarette smoke. The morning 'gossip' with the neighbours is in full swing. Bare-footed and in pyjamas my sister and I jump (out) on the balcony and join the discussion. We love summer. For two months we have our mum to ourselves, because of the summer holiday.

These images are the results of chance public encounters during a series of walks in Bolderaja, a largely Russian-speaking area of Riga which was industrialised and militarised during the soviet occupation.

Over three days in late November 2013, members of the public were requested to remotely photograph themselves and momentarily act out their everyday realities whilst continuing the situations in which they were encountered.

Set against new and yet to be completed housing developments, industrial estates, local businesses and suburban landscapes, these self-portraits act as vignettes, highlighting the roles the individuals play and the pleasures they experience in the public realm.

These images are the results of chance public encounters during a series of walks in Bolderaja, a largely Russian-speaking area of Riga which was industrialised and militarised during the soviet occupation.

Over three days in late November 2013, members of the public were requested to remotely photograph themselves and momentarily act out their everyday realities whilst continuing the situations in which they were encountered.

Set against new and yet to be completed housing developments, industrial estates, local businesses and suburban landscapes, these self-portraits act as vignettes, highlighting the roles the individuals play and the pleasures they experience in the public realm.