My dad has always loved video games. When I was little, we had a Dendy console, and we used to play together.

Later we got a computer, and he started playing on his own.
That’s how he’s been spending his free time ever since.

 

But I think it really began when my parents split up.
My mom and I moved out, and my dad stayed behind.
That’s when he started hoarding things, and the space began to warp.

He repairs electronics, so his place is filled with spare parts, and my old belongings got tangled up with wires and tools.

 

For me, that apartment is a place of memory, but at the same time it’s my father’s personal territory.

It feels important to preserve the memory, despite the chaos.

But for my dad, it’s the opposite — he wouldn’t want such a memory of him to exist at all.
This is where our interests clash, so I work on the project only when he’s not at home.

He doesn’t know about it.

 

I move through the piles and freeze whenever I hear footsteps in the stairwell. I’m afraid of being caught.

I know I’m crossing someone else’s boundaries. And yet, I can’t not do it.

 

I capture the space through photographs and 3D scans, building virtual models. These technologies remind me of the time when my dad and I used to play old computer games together.

I also create objects based on my own physical experience of the space.

In this project, I try to make sense of my conflicted feelings toward my father, balancing between love, shame, and disgust.

One time I went to my dad’s place. We were talking about something, and suddenly he said:
“Do you want me to play the synthesizer?”

I thought it would be ABBA. But instead, he started playing Moon Cat—my favorite song from childhood.
I hadn’t heard it in years.

I looked around and remembered how I used to dance here when I was very small. I would stand in the middle of this living room, barefoot on the big carpet.

The memory was so vivid. I realized just how much had changed.
All that’s left is the memory that things were once different.
I know what awaits this house and that little girl dancing in the carpet’s pattern.

It hurt. I started to cry.
My dad grew embarrassed and stopped playing. He tried to act as if nothing was happening.

But I couldn’t stop, even though I felt ashamed.