The staircase I glimpsed in a ruined building in Tel Aviv is fused with the one I played on in a London boarding-house, and that of the family flat in Vienna before the war, which I visited amid the ruins of the city in 1948. It also reminded me of watching filming on the set of 'The Third Man,' perched on a stool.
An image of the uncertainty of boundaries, partly arising from a short story, 'Wo ich Wonne' [Where I live] by my mother's twin, Ilse Aichinger.
The dog, an image derived from Tarkovsky, seems to be a link between different levels of consciousness, with suggestions of a transformative power.
The dog travels through a landscape as undefined as the links between memories.
The dog seems to be racing back through time as if it might lead to what is hidden.
The torn bits of paper are like scraps of letters or memories which are difficult to piece together.
My great-grandfather Jacob, who died just before the war. I tried to pull him away from his photograph to use his less-formed image to shape his father Dzadzu.
Two of Jacob's children appear in a photograph taken before the war by my great aunt Klara. Both children were deported and murdered, along with their mother.
Though Jacob died before the war, the torn letter seems to represent the frailty of communication between Austria and England during the war. On these scraps you could write all of the 25 words allowed on a Red Cross telegram.
The image of Jacob on the studio floor, a chance effect from spray-mounting, seems to indicate the way memory pales as one tries to link with figures of earlier generations.
Postcards of Emperor Franz Joseph fell out of family letters as I sorted them. He lived at the same time as Jacob and also died before the war. I combined the image of Franz Joseph with that of Jacob in his Austrian army uniform.
Based on the negative of a photograph taken from my grandmother's window in Vienna. Augustine, a legendary figure from medieval times, wanders into the frame much as Dzadu wandered into central Europe from the Caucasus.
I was trying to clothe an image of Dzadzu, about whom so few details are known, in the hope that it would lead me closer to him.
These works came out of the blurred boundaries between my early memories as the child of refugees, and the collective memory of the family. I tried to link the gaps due to separation, dispossession, deportation and death.
My mother Helga Michie escaped to England on the last kindertransport from Vienna, leaving her twin-sister Ilse Aichinger and other members of the family back in Austria. Some of the family were deported to Minsk and murdered.
I chose the shadowy figure of Dzadzu, my great, great grandfather, to explore, and perhaps to organise, the fragments of memory.