Today, we had the chance to visit a friend who lives in an old apartment building. As we stepped into her 100-square-meter home, we were welcomed by a space filled with objects—each one quietly holding a memory, likely gathered from her father, who passed away recently.
The place felt like a quiet time capsule. Vintage typewriters, old film and photo cameras—things you’d expect to see in a museum rather than someone’s living room. Her father used to be a teacher, and his subject was Stage Design—an unusual and fascinating field. Maybe that explains the presence of all these intriguing, theatrical objects.
He was also a talented painter. The walls were filled with detailed sketches and expressive artwork, each one revealing something of his inner world. Under the soft glow of worn-out fluorescent lights, the entire room felt frozen in time. It didn’t feel like just a home anymore. It had become a Museum of Memory—and our friend, its quiet curator.
And honestly, it made me think: aren’t we all curators of our own Museums of Memory? Some are big, some small. Some out in the open, others quietly tucked away. Joy fades. Sadness softens. But memory lingers. And over time, those memories shape the way we think, the way we create, the way we live—and eventually, the person we become.
