The past always shines in golden hued memories. It draws on the energy of innocent times, when the present was still a possibility and the future a farfetched idea. This summer my grandfather (the only one I still have left) pulled out a box of photos made by him when my mother was young, when her brother was young, when him and my grandmother were young. Made with his Russian Smena, the photographs speak of times and facets of people I never got the chance to see: my grandmother as a young wife, my grandfather as a military man, my mother as a kid and a teenager. Stories gathered around those pictures, about times in the communist era, about hopes, expectations, and nevertheless, delusions. About a sense of justice and freedom, about youthfulness, about hopes that flew so high, that the fall was bound to be fatal. Fallen and trapped under history’s blind spots, the delusion that followed just after the great adrenalline rush of the Revolution left many feeling cheated, dissapointed, and most of all, unprepared. My project dwells on those moments, from that time of innocence, when bananas, chocolate or a can of Coca Cola were pieces of Heaven; it plays on the paradox of dreaming about utopia while living in an oppresive regime, based itself on an utopian ideology, gone (howelse but) awfully wrong. It speaks of a state of innocence and idealism, blossomed in the midst of brutal times, an innocence dare I say, that cannot be found or relived in a modern, hyperconnected, “free” world. It also speaks about personal legacies, about the people and the stories that make up who we are, about instants of hopes frozen in time, small utopias passed along generations. About a remixed time of dreams and disbelief.