Joshua Rigo

“On a réclamé des bras, et des hommes sont arrivés.” 
 “We asked for hands, and men arrived.” 
 - Max Frisch 

At the same age I am now, my grandparents migrated from northern Italy. In the 50s, Switzerland’s expanding industries introduced a high demand for migrant workers. They met there and eventually settled in Geneva, where I was later born and raised. Even though the country’s infrastructure was built by people like them, I hold a "Permit for strangers". Reversely, as a third-generation Italian raised in Switzerland, I don't speak Italian. I exist in an ambiguous in-between. 

Starting from my family archive, I gather snippets of my grandparents’ home, their clothes, their hands, and fragments that are anchored in my childhood memory. Through the macro lens, I find the photographs layered with traces: Scratches, dust and fingerprints - my ancestors? The skin of the skin. Are we a touch away? I think about all the hands that have been in between these images to arrive in mine. I remember the calloused and rugged skin of my grandfather’s hands - he was a tiler. Mine are all dainty in comparison. His rusty and weathered tools are material records of his hands and his labor. I am fascinated by this recurring tactility, in that spirit I make contact prints and photograms, where touching is a means for remembering, connecting, and belonging.