Žilvinas Baranauskas

The coarse surface of raw concrete brings memories to me. Reinforced concrete panel buildings, tall chimneys, brick walls, hangars, and railroads branching from the old cement factory all speak to me of home. The neighbourhood in which I grew up and spent most of my childhood and teenage years always remains dreamy to me. While visiting my parents back home, I gaze into the grey cityscape through the window of my childhood house. I wish to hug those cold and wet concrete buildings. I wish I could grasp that impalpable longing, the bittersweetness of unreachable past.