When the family history of over 100 years of flower growers in central Warsaw ended with my birth, I felt there was nothing of a grower in myself.
What I remember from growing up in my family home surrounded by abandoned glass houses is mostly their textured and rough industrial materiality and the presence of disappearance and decay at every step I took while constantly exploring their ghostly landscapes – glass, dry air, warmth, rust, zinc planters, pipes, machines, pumps, and multiple structures of unknown functionality.
Filled with archaeological like discoveries, they remained quiet and empty but almost opulent in their multiple traces of living elements from bacteria, to weeds and dry soil evident in every metal container. Glass houses, where the life and growth of nature is controlled, became synonymous with a
personal history intertwined with the impermanent nature of the material world and memories alike.