Andrej Krementschouk portrays his Russian homeland, where he is not at home anymore. In haunting images, he asks the ever-pertinent question of what is remembered and what is lost, seeking evidence of emotional rootedness and cultural identity:

I have to share something about this modest place that no one knows, something about me. . . . My house. I'm five years old. My grandfather, my grandmother and I are walking along a forest path that leads to our village. It's hot. In a forest glade near the river my grandmother lays out some newspaper: boiled eggs, salt, slightly salty...