My mother passed away on September 16th, 2017 in Belgrade. She fell in Višegradska Street, fractured the back of her skull and succumbed to her injuries within 24 hours. I thought about her passing and how it will soon be forgotten that she ever existed.

I could not visit her apartment for half a year. She was the last one to touch any of the things in there. I finally decided to go and to photograph everything just the way she left it, and in a way, extend her presence. That’s how “Traces of My Mother” was born.

I’ve observed frozen scenes during those two days, and in a way, spending time with my mother inside her space.

In 1991, I gave my mother a music box, as a present for March 8th – Women’s Day. Ten days later, I started mandatory army service, while war started a few months after that. I have heard from my sister that mother spent her nights winding the music box over and over again, until my return.

Her desk houses: a cigarette box – present I got her for one of her birthdays, medication, reading glasses, and old camera… She used to buy cheap old camera from flea markets for me. I was grateful every time, would thank her for the gift, and usually toss them away after she left. This old camera was obviously the last one she bought. I will keep it this time.

There is photo of Tito in the hallway, right next to an Orthodox icon. Mother was brought up as a communist, and when that religion fell apart, she looked for a replacement. I am not sure that she was successful in that endeavor.

Her apartment is full of toys – which she also found at flea markets. She would bring them home, wash them, then gift to little children on the street. I think not having any grandkids made her sad, but she never complained.

Great philosopher once said that the key to immortality lies in, above all, living the life worth remembering. I am not sure how is something worth remembering determined.