The time that remains

I am the fifth child of my grandparents.
For forty-four years we have been a family.
My grandfather's diagnosis of "terminal cancer" gave me the impulse to begin this project. 
In this already emotionally charged year 2020, in which everything seems to be upside down,
this painful farewell, saying goodbye to my grandfather, was quickly approaching.

In "The time that remains" I portray our last months together, a photographic narrative
about memories, closeness, and cohesion. And also about forgiveness. 

About how we were together until the end, asking, talking, listening, remembering,
doubting, laughing, comforting and holding hands. 

About the quiet days when we silently hoped for an extension of our common time. About letting go. 

About the happiness of being able to speak to each other carefully, about topics that
have been locked up for a whole lifetime. What other questions do I still have?

As often as I can, I go home to my grandparents, to the small apartment with a garden
in the Thuringian countryside. We spent times, hours, days, weeks together.
We breathed in the same rhythm.

It won't be the same as it was anymore. 

What was, will remain. 
The portrait of a family saying goodbye to each other.