Temporary Folder, 2026
Video
Duration: 16 min. 9 sec.
Temporary Folder looks at how a woman’s identity is shaped and constantly redefined by cultural expectations, migration, bureaucracy and digital systems. In this project, “home” is not understood as a physical place, but as something produced by rules, documents and technological structures. A woman appears here not as a fixed subject, but as a temporary record, a file that can be moved, updated, paused or erased. The video uses a fragmented portrait, architectural shadows and data-like elements to reflect how systems decide who belongs and under what conditions. These systems include family roles, migration statuses, bureaucratic procedures and the logic of digital storage, all of which treat identity as something to be verified, processed and controlled. Within this structure, home becomes a temporary state rather than a stable place. Female identity moves through layers of classification, never fully settling, always incomplete and in transition. It exists in a condition of waiting, suspended between being recognized and being erased. The project reflects how many women today experience “home” as something unstable and conditional.
They promised me my soul is eternal. Weightless. Borderless.
A small flame immune to geography.
They forgot to mention that eternity still needs a postal address.
My soul is a bird. Not the kind that migrates by instinct — it flies only when stamped. It lands only when approved.
The body learns quickly. This body talks all languages.
It bends its vowels, flattens its consonants, files down its accent like a chipped nail.
This body says “thank you” in four dialects. It says “I understand” even when it does not.
This body doesn’t understand any.
It memorizes rules. Queue here. Sign here. Wait here.
Always wait here. I belong everywhere, while belonging nowhere.
Databases remember me longer than people do.
I exist in servers — cool rooms humming in the dark — where my face is reduced to coordinates, my fingerprints to patterns of light.
The printing machine works for me. The zeros and ones work for me.
They process me, compress me, store me.
I am archived. I am searchable. I am temporary.
Home is no longer a place. It is a status.
A fragile condition between two emails.
Home is the space between “application received” and “decision pending.”
I carry my house like a draft in the cloud.
Sometimes I open it. Sometimes it fails to load.
They said my soul is eternal. I live in layers.
Each role a separate folder. None of them permanent.
When I close my eyes
I see corridors made of light — infinite, white, silent — as if I am walking through the Universe that cannot decide whether to keep me or delete me.
I am visible everywhere.
Reflected in glass buildings.
Mirrored in screens.
And yet I am almost transparent.
A draft version of myself.
Auto-saved. Never finalized.
They promised me my soul is eternal.
Perhaps it is. But eternity feels very small when it fits inside a temporary folder.
Session active.
Identity processing.
Please wait.