This space, where I host my father (and my mother, too) alongside his beautiful photography, is where everything grew from. My roots.
My father was killed in the war when I was just six years old. Every childhood memory I hold exists because of his photographs. In the 11th grade, relatives in America gave him his first camera: a simple box camera. After they got married, my parents bought their first Zorki. My dad only had 12 years to take pictures. He documented life, our family, and the kibbutz with a gentle eye and a vivid, beating heart.
There is so much love in his photos—and even when my mother was the one behind the lens, you can feel that same pulse. I am here today, both as a person and as a photographer, because of that remarkable Zorki and the beautiful heart of the man who held it. In every home I live in, and on every website I build, there will always be a cornerstone honoring my roots.
