Stories we did not tell, secrets we did not share. Mayya Kelova photographer
Stories we did not tell, secrets we did not share. Mayya Kelova photographer
Stories we did not tell, secrets we did not share. Mayya Kelova photographer
Stories we did not tell, secrets we did not share. Mayya Kelova photographer
Stories we did not tell, secrets we did not share. Mayya Kelova photographer
Stories we did not tell, secrets we did not share. Mayya Kelova photographer
Stories we did not tell, secrets we did not share. Mayya Kelova photographer
Stories we did not tell, secrets we did not share. Mayya Kelova photographer
Stories we did not tell, secrets we did not share. Mayya Kelova photographer
Stories we did not tell, secrets we did not share. Mayya Kelova photographer

stories we did not tell, 

secrets we did not share

I remember the day my sister left home, especially the last minutes before her departure to Georgia. Looking at me and our dad through the window of the train, she was crying. I was too. This is probably the strongest memory I have of her of all the time we had together before she left. At that moment it felt like she was leaving home forever. 

She was only 16, and I was 13. Our next meeting happened only 10 years later. 

Now, as adults with our own families, the only time we have for the two of us is quiet hours. In the silence of the night, we open up to each other and share secrets. Like we could do it if we’d spent our adolescent years together.

I bring my digital camera to our safe space to document the process, as well as the film camera from home. The silver Premier PC-670, which our dad bought just a few years before my sister moved to Georgia, captured many events of our childhood.

Sometimes this process feels like a game, but maybe this play will bring us closer.

2022 — ongoing (work in progress).