Middle is a close inspection of our own life. Bogi and I are now 33, we share our suburban home with her parents. We are flourishing.

About six years ago, following our wedding, I started to photograph Bogi and my new family to build a portrait of the symbiosis of different personalities and meanwhile to document how pregnancies force her body to change. Now, after the birth of our third child in a row, the project seems to have come to an end.

This is our time of intervention, the middle of life, when energies and visions are abundant. As we struggle and develop towards some kind of summit in life, days go by in a hectic, often uncontrollable congestion that accompany the constructing of self image as a family, home improvement and self-reproduction. I attempted to document the slow transition of the everydays in an average hungarian family, but - looking at some images later - the scenes struck me as illusions instead.
Some of them were illusions for real, taking place in a middle-class environment, driven by dreams available.

I have been brought up in deviant conditions compared to the families one can find in advertisements, the ordinary background of my wife struck me with elemental power, and it still does. Their instinct for life and the commitment to family-line paired with unquestioned obligation of compound interest was something I had hardly experienced in my childhood. The analysis of my new relatives explained the real meaning of middle-class existence maintained by wage and salary, monotone working hours alternating with car repair, home improvement, gardening, family gatherings and other shoreless activities.

This body of work is a photographic sculpture of the great days of our life, that is happening in a constant present, immediately fading into the twilight of memory with exaggerated or deficient elements, dead-ends and a nonlinear narrative structure on loose orbit around the growing lives within Bogi.

Bogi writes notes of every smallest event, but often ignores what I would consider as important. Of course I do not write a diary, so I only have a blurred vision of how our everyday life proceeds.
During the years of work on Middle, I did not realize that by avoiding photographing family events and gatherings after a while it will be almost impossible to place the photographs on the timeline. When Bogi offered her help to find the dates in her diary, I expected to read embarrasing or deeply personal details, but to my greatest surprise the notes follow the flow of daily routines with an almost unbearably considerate objectivity. Based on her telegram-style notes I attempt to reconstruct my own constant present.