Following on from my explorations in DNA relationships and ways of tracking movements of my ancestors around the world, I reached a point of trying to resurrect the past. Lazarus refers to that act of restoring something but being left with the melancholy feelings that stem from having witnessed something beyond this present time. The images depicted on the face trace the movement of young children across the Anatolian planes, carrying only the cooking utensils that they would use to keep them alive. The image taken from a 1923 Red Cross publication, sets the scene for the tumultuous years that unfolded from that time, until the passing of my parents and my recent visits to Crete. The olive trees, the people being shipped away from the war-torn coastal regions of Asia Minor and back the other way in an exchange of populations, the boats, broken sculpture and mixed funerary stones of Christian, Muslim and Jewish Greeks. The barren land, the stories of the grandmother figure staring from the top left, recounting her personal catastrophe and her determination to protect her family, are indicative of the personal and human stories that make up any national disaster. It is not a happy story and whereas I normally leave white spaces for visual and emotional ‘respite’ of the eyes, this time the feelings were overwhelming and so the face was flooded with these narratives. Hope lives eternally despite that, but when we look at the past it is not always possible to escape the pain, and perhaps that is alright. We have to acknowledge loss before we can move on to happier times. So the image, although very personal, as with all my other work, I hope it goes beyond my cosmography to speak of our shared humanity and the complexities, the highs and the lows of our existence. Screen printed form the A1 original pen and ink drawing. Layers of black and metallic powder with gold.