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While cleaning the fridge, I found the soffritto pronto my father had preserved in salt before his death—now covered in mould. I could no longer recall his voice, but cooking with it kept his memory alive.
But now, not anymore. All of a sudden, the creeping process of my fading memories was marked by a turning point. By collecting the spores of mould at the places where my father lived, I allow the viewer to take part in my search to grasp his fading existence in space.
