Diana Markosian ha ganado recientemente el premio-beca “Emerging Photographer Fund” de Burn Magazine al mejor ensayo fotográfico. Un prestigioso galardón, en el seno de una publicación comandada por el “magnum” David Alan Harvey, enfocado a creadores documentalistas emergentes, que se ha ganado un respetable hueco dentro del panorama fotográfico. Y lo ha hecho con un evocador y poético recuerdo a su padre “ausente”, bajo el título de “My father, the stranger”. Una emocionante mirada de Diana Markosian al pasado, recreando la traumática separación de su padre a muy corta edad, y el peso que ha supuesto ese hecho a lo largo de su vida. Así lo relata en texto y en imágenes, una parte de los cuales hemos seleccionado:
My Father, The Stranger
I knocked on the door of a stranger.
I’ve traveled halfway around the world to meet him.
I was seven years old when I last saw him.
As the Soviet Union collapsed, so did my family.
I remember my father and I dancing together in our tiny apartment in Moscow and him giving me my first doll.
I also remember him leaving.
Sometimes he would be gone for months at a time and then unexpectedly be back.
Until, one day, it was our turn to leave.
My mother woke me up and told me to pack my belongings. She said we were going on a trip. The next day, we arrived at our new home, California.
We hardly ever spoke of my father. I had no pictures of him, and over time, forgot what he looked like.
I often wondered what it would have been like to have a father.
I still do.
As a child, my father would visit my brother and me, floating in and out of our lives.
Today, the visitor is me.
I am standing in the courtyard of his home.
It is the same gray, decaying Soviet building my parents lived in after they married.
You could say I’ve come home. But that’s not how it feels.
At a certain point, my father stopped being a person to me.
He became a myth, a memory.
When I would ask my mother about him, she would look at me, disappointed:
‘Forget him. He’s gone,’ she’d say.
My mother never understood why I wanted to know him.
I don’t think she does to this day.
He moved back to Armenia after his mother died.
It was a sense of duty to his 90-year-old father that brought him back.
Every day, he prepares his meals, gives him his medicine and helps him in the shower.
Even in the middle of the night. My father is there.