For a long time he simply was my father’s brother; Uncle Albin. As a child I spent many holidays with my father on Albin’s farm. My father died early. My visits to Albin didn’t stop. Albin looks like my father, Albin has the same blood and he still lives where my father was born. One day I brought a camera along. I didn’t just capture memories but found an untainted vitality, a lust for life that maybe my father lacked: A will to survive in his very own and often unexpected way. It’s the wry poetry that surrounds him and his farm that fascinates me and that I want to breathe in as long as he lives.