THE GEOGRAPHY OF MEMORY
"Paradise is home. Home as it was or home as it should have been. Paradise is one’s own place, one's own people, one's own world, knowing and known, perhaps even loving and loved. Yet every child is cast from paradise-into growth and destruction, into solitude and new community, into vast, ongoing change.”
Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Talents
Spring seems to emerge from the earth in vibrant and fragile display. Flowers and blossoms open up against grey stalks and stems. They appear so delicate and yet they persevere and push through as if to overcome all doubt and pessimism.
As a dancer, the transformation of my body as I age sometimes feel like a betrayal. The aches, stiffness, and vulnerability make me pause. I’m no longer emerging as vibrant and instead I am part of the hard crust of bark and stiff stems. What is this now that takes the place of former agility? Can it still be dance?
This change is an evolution that has to live next to the memories of my past capabilities. How can I combine these to create a new vocabulary of movemement? Is it a renewed language? Renewal is like Spring but this change includes seeing death at the same time.
The Geography of Memory is a map in my mind and my body of what I imagine doing as a dancer, what I once was capable of, what I assume I can still do, and the reality of what I am able to do. The future is a closed door because it is so short and so unpredictable. And yet this closed door represents a freedom to see what I want to see. To be in the present where the past can still live.
"The Geography of Memory" project began by instructing dancers to learn specific gestures in a set sequence. These movements, simple and pedestrian, are accessible to all skill levels and include actions such as slowly lifting one's arms, looking backward, walking in a specific pattern, or arranging arms into various shapes.
I invited ten dancers to individually interpret these movements in ways that felt physically natural to them. Our meetings took place in locations ranging from environments familiar to the dancers to spaces that intrigued me—some in their homes, others in a dance studio, and even one in an olive grove, with additional filming at my own home in Altadena.
The dancers navigated my house with an acute awareness of the architectural elements—the lines, the light streaming in, the hallways, and the doors and windows framing the yard. They explored every inch of the area, both inside and out, performing in unison, duets, trios, and solos. It seemed as though they were engaged in a silent dialogue with each other and the space—the very space of my home. What has become particularly meaningful is that this footage serves as a portal to the past.
Our house was small and was designed and constructed by a Holocaust survivor named Frederick Frankl. He crafted the home with meticulous attention to detail, particularly considering how natural light would fill the space throughout the changing seasons. His design philosophy emphasized harmony with the natural environment, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that seamlessly invited the outdoors inside. Frankl, who had survived and escaped from two concentration camps, immigrated to the United States with his wife, Gertie. Together, they built this house in 1948. He built it with steel and created a retaining wall to protect it from floods. It survived extreme winds, past fires, and provided shelter for all kinds of families - many who we met over the 20 years we lived there.
In the first year after moving into our house in Altadena, I filmed ten minutes every day, capturing ordinary moments with my daughter and my husband when he was not away for work. This footage is now stored on two hard drives I saved when I evacuated my home before it was destroyed in the Eaton Wildfire of January 2025.
When my mother passed away in 2000, I found a box containing 20 years of her handwritten journals, which I read twice. Sadly, my siblings never had the opportunity to read them before they were lost in a fire. Now, all I have are my memories and interpretations of her words, her thoughts, and feelings. It sometimes feels like a daunting responsibility to distill her words into messages that my siblings and our family can find solace in. I have six brothers and sisters. My mother mostly raised us alone, and it was evident that she loved us all equally, regardless of the difficulties and pain we caused her at various points growing up.
Over the past few weeks, I have continued to process what I term as 'souvenirs from the past.’ The loss of tangible items like books, photos, paintings, clothes, and old letters is significant; they are not just physical objects but links to memories and experiences. Ultimately, what persists are the memories that we can bring to mind—the reminders, the souvenirs.
For me, 'The Geography of Memory' explores how we remember our past through our bodies, our muscle memory, physical objects, places, and our interactions with others. I am intrigued by how memories can disrupt our routine existence, introducing a new rhythm that we must acknowledge and integrate into our present life.
The act of filming my friends means I am no longer concerned with my own inabilities as a dancer, instead I am fully attuned to capturing what the dancers and movers are communicating. What their bodies can say and do and how those bodies move in space and with each other. And how these images engage my own imagination conjuring up the past and weaving it into the present.
The variety of movements, shapes, and limitations offer me a window into the idea that all levels of experience, all movement is shaped by what we bring to it - our imagination, our memories, and our physical ability. I am recording them. I am the observer, something I can’t do for myself. But in finding a way to film and direct these movers, I am participating and feeling it deeply within my own muscle memory.
After editing these recorded sessions, a structure, sound, and pattern began to take shape in my mind. The idea of incorporating Stravinsky's 'The Rite of Spring' as a background score captivated me. Stravinsky’s composition resonates with the rawness and immediacy of human emotions. It vividly captures the contradictions of life—joy, despair, love, isolation and community. Stravinsky's composition tells a tale centered on a pagan ritual where a young woman's sacrifice must occur for spring to arrive. At this point in my life, I find myself contemplating the sacrifices necessary for my own new season and identity. These questions have become more pressing since the fire. The flames have consumed many things that I once considered integral to my identity. Now, I am faced with a choice: do I attempt to replace what was lost, or do I endeavor to reinvent myself? How do the memories ingrained in my mind and body help shape this new version of myself? What is this new terrain, this new geography?
My filmmaking experience unfolds like spring itself—a new way to work and to dance, this time with the camera. I recognize that all new beginnings are fragile and vulnerable. It's a constant struggle to keep something alive. Spring isn't always picturesque; sprouts must force their way through wet, muddy soil, shedding some petals, for a brief yet beautiful existence. They are blissfully unaware that their blossoms will wilt, paving the way for a new cycle to begin. They sacrifice for the future generations.
Each time I listen to "The Rite of Spring," its force vibrates through my body, rekindling dormant physical and mental energies. In a time when aging is often seen as a decline, integrating this powerful music into the films with the dancers I work with infuses a sense of rejuvenation, possibility, and growth. And watching them move in and out of the rooms and spaces that have become ash, offers a dreamlike experience that lives on in my memory, their bodies, and in this project.
Geography of Memory Vimeo Showcase
One aspect of the Geography of Memory project involves a dedicated effort to produce one-minute videos crafted from footage I collect during my daily life and travels. These videos were originally shared on Instagram as stories, disappearing after 24 hours. However, they can now be viewed in a Vimeo Showcase linked below. At the core of this work is a collaboration with my good friend, David Shohl, a prolific and talented composer whom I have known since our college days.
Video Sketches
“The task for the right eye is to peer into the telescope, while the left eye peers into the microscope.” - Leonora Carrington
Sketch
Roz & Laura
Sketch
Miriam
Sketch
Sol
Sketch
Roz, Stephanie, & Laura
Katrina and Matt
Hallways
House
HOME IS A HARD DRIVE IN MY BRAIN. by Nuala Sanchez
I think about being a child.
I think about using the landline to call my best friend’s house. I can hear her mother answer and I ask nicely if she can come over.
I think about looking out the window in the evening and seeing the headlights of my dad’s car pulling into the driveway. My mother tells me to set the table.
I think about pushing the cart at the grocery store while my mom shops. I can taste strawberry Häagen-Dazs ice cream.
I think about waking up in the morning. I can hear footsteps descending the stairs and I know who they belong to.
And now, I am far away. My hair has grown, my skin is paler, my fingers have tapered.
Sometimes I’ll happen upon a familiar smell, in a friend’s apartment, on a stranger’s jacket, and feel myself transported. To somewhere I know well but can’t quite place. And for a small moment I am a child again.
I like to close my eyes and walk around the house. I open every cabinet and every drawer. I’m not looking for anything, I just like to know everything is in its place. Hair ties in the drawer to the left of the bathroom sink. Aluminum foil in the third drawer by the oven. My mother’s wedding dress in her closet. Batteries. Napkins. Band-aids. My ballet slippers.
I make as much noise as possible. I pull a chair out from the table to hear it screech against the floor. I shake a bottle of vitamins. Flip through pages of a coffee table book. Turn on the shower.
I switch the latch and open the back door. Let it slam behind me. Skid down the concrete steps. Standing in the grass, looking up at the oak trees. A canopy of leaves covering the sky.
An ocean of green ivy at my ankles. Wobbly brick steps lead deeper into the yard. I look down at my feet as I maneuver through.
Thick red rope tied onto a plywood two by four. Hooks wedged into the overhanging tree branch. My dad built this swing for me when I was five.
I turn back to the house. The sun has started to set and through the window I see my father turn on a lamp in the living room. I look to the window of my mother’s office. She sits in front of her computer, blue light glowing onto her skin. She switches off the screen and swivels out of her chair. The back door swings open and my dad calls out to me. Dinner’s ready.
I open my eyes. In front of me is the swing again. The piece of wood now coated with a thick layer of ash, the red rope faded and tattered. It’s the only thing I still recognize. There was once a fence that separated our property from our neighbors behind us. Now I can see all the way to the next street. A white pick-up truck drives by.
Looking at the house, a strange skeleton stands before me, made up of steel beams indicating the separation of rooms. The oak trees, black and wiry. Everything has become the same color. Even the same texture.
I can hear my own breath exhale. It gets caught inside my mask and swims up to my goggles, fogging my vision. Looking down at my feet, I trudge back up the broken path.
In between the steel frames, I see the white silhouette of my father in his hazmat suit. He lowers himself through the floor beams into the cavernous pit of rubble. I crouch by the window as he sifts through.
It becomes a search for old curiosities. My dad uncovers something from the ash and carefully places it in my hands. A vase. A mug. A bowl covered in tiny cracks, but still intact. An archaeological dig of our past life.
I have been asked if there is one thing I miss most. An item from the house I wish we had saved. But when I think about taking one thing it feels like ripping a page out of a book.
Home was an entire wall of bookshelves. There were books lining the walls of the living room, of my bedroom, beneath the coffee table. Of painters, photographers, filmmakers, historians.
Home was a long hallway of photographs. Of my grandparents and old city maps. Of pictures my dad shot and developed in his darkroom.
Home was the mountains. Seeing them get closer as we drove home. Watching them turn purple as the sun set. From the kitchen window they felt so near you could almost reach out and touch them.
My dad and I collect our findings and load them into the trunk of the car. We peel off our hazmat suits and gloves and sit in the car for a moment. Parked in the driveway, we stare out at the house.
He begins to imagine what a new home might look like on this same plot of land. Something small and simple. Creative ways to be more sustainable and use new materials. Making sure we still have a view of the mountains.
As we look out at the house, two little birds float down from the avocado tree. In tandem, they fly towards the wide opening in the steel beams, where the window to the living room once was. Seamlessly they fly into the living room and out through the back window into the yard.
My dad drives away and in the passenger seat I close my eyes again.
I return to the house. All of the cabinets and drawers had been opened and so I carefully close them. I take stock of their contents before closing each one. Rubber bands, potato chips, film stock, notebooks. The sun has set, I dim the lights. Testing my memory again, I imagine each light switch, on and off, on and off.
I think about the two little birds. I see them fly through the living room again. Through my bedroom and the bathroom. It’s theirs now.
My dad continues driving through LA traffic. Eventually he is driving me to the airport. My flight back to New York. The city of my separate life.
Weeks later I am standing in the corner of a gallery space in Brooklyn. A show that had taken me weeks to organize. A room of projections showing my mother’s work. I wish she was beside me and not on the other side of the country.
In my pocket, I feel my phone buzz every few minutes. Venmo donations to my hometown as guests arrive.
Playing on the screen is a dancer my mother had choreographed. She’s in our front yard, moving around the bamboo and the avocado trees. The bright blue front door just behind her.
To a friend next to me I whisper, It’s all right there. She smiles, So great you have the videos.
And she’s right. I am lucky for the well of evidence to my memories. But what I meant really was it’s all still there. We see it projected across the wall, but it is also forever inside my head.
Inside my head, I have every birthday party.
I have every fight with my parents. Every time I cried in the shower. Every Christmas morning.
I have every iteration of the house. The different couches and dining room chairs. Every crazy color I painted the walls of my room.
Inside my head, there is a child. In some ways she is me, but in many ways she is not. And I am lucky to have her memories.
Nuala Sanchez is a director, writer, and photographer originally from Altadena, CA and currently based in Brooklyn, NY.
