My home, is a memory that remains deep in the heart while I’m living elsewhere, and also a small bed where I may get into with the tired body after finishing the day. The place where separated family members get together like a puzzle, the place offering the impression of return, that becomes the home. For the one who has left, the home may be nowhere and also can be anywhere, like those living in the street. And the home always comes along with the life lead inside. The studio in Paris, where I settled in after a certain number of moves, my parents’ house where I can put my baggage for a while to greet several mornings, the house in Geneva, where I can make a point of running times, professor’s houses, friends’ houses, and all the other temporary accommodations… They all mix up in memory and construct my actual home in the present.