My father went into the woods, with the intention of never coming back

Now is not the right time – a Photo Book Peter Pflügler: “The flying chair is the one my mother used to breastfeed me in, when all happened. It needed to be freed from the ground, it needed to fly, and still hang on a thread”

Storyteller using images, text, performance: what moves your artistic research?

For a long time in my life, I was trying to understand what motivates me, which stories I want to tell, why I want to create art in the first place. Slowly, I realized that it all started with the secret in my family, the theme that would lead to the project Now is not the right time. When I was two years old, my father went into the woods, with the intention of never coming back. He survived his suicide attempt, but my parents decided to keep this incident a secret for almost 20 years. Once I found out, it still took me 10 years to understand and to heal, before I started my project. “Now is not the right time” allowed me to take ownership of this story. How empowering that is, after a whole life of exclusion! In this project and in my work in general, I want to show the impossibility of secrets and the transformative power of silence. They are active creatures, moulding their way in the darkness, influencing the life of others, in the fertile soil of confusion.

Early traces of the secret: did you recognize them?

The project Now is not the Right Time started 4-5 years ago. I began my research years before, while my family was only unconsciously leaving traces about what happened when I was two. The most difficult thing was to look through the confusion and guilt. Since I did not have knowledge of anything that had happened, I thought that I was broken, once the traces started to surface. It began with an immense feeling of grief, so fundamental, that I could not link it to anything I had experienced. I had strange dreams, that felt like memories I never could recall. Every time I felt very bad, I would go into the woods, to a certain spot, that gave me some strength and peace. Later I found out that it was the exact place where my father’s suicide attempt took place. And all of this made me feel so guilty, I did not allow myself to feel like this.

That is why I believe so much in the relief of knowing. I experienced it. I divide my life into before knowing and after finding out. The information itself does not magically heal everything, but it was freeing to understand that I was carrying something. That is also a reason why I share all the details of my story in the project: to not continue the cycle of silence, of ambiguity. This works especially well in the book: the images are confusing; they create a sense of knowing, but you first do not have words for it. Then you will realize that there is text hidden between the pages: diary entries, essays, memories… Through these texts, you will find out many details and hopefully feel a relief of knowing as well.

The therapeutic role of photography: a resolution for the whole family?

Since photography can be so therapeutic, people ask if this project, besides being personally significant for me, has also been a resolution for my whole family. It is important to mention that I took a lot of time. First, there was the desire to create the project, then I slowly started to take images, mainly documenting my parents in their home. I began interviewing them, and through that, I realized the power of distance: as an artist, I became an investigator, a detective. I was not their son in the first place when I asked those difficult questions. There is my father, in front of him my camera, and behind there is me, the artist, finally asking the question I never dared to ask as a son: Why? Why did you want to leave us?
I am grateful for this journey we did together. My parents are very proud of what I did, it also softens their own feeling of guilt, seeing that so many good things came out of this project. My father understood why I needed to do this project, he was able to acknowledge that even though they tried to shield me from pain, they created a new form of it.

“My father returned from the woods, but the woods came back with him.”

This phrase struck me deeply: all the images where the wood “penetrates” our home align with it. Would you say the forest represents the antagonist in the story, something to be defeated despite its resistance? Does it also represent the silence that has invaded your home?
The forest is indeed a symbol for the silence invading our home, but not only. It became a character, a metaphor for many different aspects. It is hard to photograph the invisible. I needed a stand-in. The forest is an actor, sometimes the stage. It is difficult for me to reduce it to one role. Personally, I am afraid of it, it gives me peace, I enjoy it—all of it. When I was in the early stage of the project, I was stuck in the present and in the literal. I started writing and, when I formulated the sentence about my father bringing the woods with him into our home, it triggered different visuals. It was the beginning of a more evocative, timeless, and metaphorical visual language.

Vague images in a dream-like dimension

The images themselves are vague and suspended in a dream-like dimension, suggesting ambiguity and truth about what the story narrates. I’m thinking about the wooden chair that flies, or the colorful balls on the kitchen floor. Did I draw inspiration from dreams or nightmares I had as a child? What atmosphere was I interested in creating?

I am not a world builder, but a world intruder. When I take an image, I first start with an existing setting: the house I grew up in, the objects, places, or people that mean a lot to me. Then I interfere, and this act can be very thought-through or very intuitive. Sometimes I want to photograph a metaphor or a symbol; I plan, and try to build the image. Sometimes I need to take the picture in a certain way, without exactly knowing why. Often, it is a combination of both. I believe in the balance of information and gaps: for example, the flying chair you mentioned is the exact chair my mother used to breastfeed me in, when all happened. And it still exists! What a trace, and what a loaded object. It needed to be freed from the ground, it needed to fly, and still hang on a thread. And yet, in this case, I do not think I need to share this information. The image conveys its importance, I believe.

“You’ve always said you don’t believe in secrets.” What does that mean?

Yes, I use this sentence a lot, and it is a bit extreme. Which is fine—I also want to shake people a bit and start a discussion. Once I get asked about this sentence, I clarify: I don’t believe that secrets exist as something only shared by those who hold the information. It influences, it changes, it confuses, it colors the experience of those not knowing. What are we sharing when we hide? I believe a lot. And in that way, a secret does not really exist. The other people excluded (and yet involved) know, they simply don’t have words for it.

The text in the project and the book: when did you start writing?

The text plays an important role in the project and the book. When did I start writing? Did I change my narrative approach over the years of creating the series, for example, as in the early images where I used a more documentary and distant approach?

Writing was my first outlet for my confusion. Growing up, I started to write poems and short stories, trying to make sense of my sadness. Now, images have taken over this role: they became my poems. Text, for me, is now a companion of context and knowledge. I love writing; I love its ability to confirm, to give information, and yet remain as ambiguous as I want it to be. Also, it feels very intimate. If I use my own words, I allow the viewer more into my own world, my thoughts, my feelings. An image can do that as well, of course, but there is a whole process in between. I also like the challenge of combining text and visuals—it is very tricky, but very rewarding when it works.

A title that suggests inadequacy: “Now is not the right time”

Despite the resolution and the opportunity I give the reader to understand the whole story by revealing my family’s secret, the title maintains a sense of inadequacy, of a wrong present time. Can I explain this choice? The title is a little bit like my images: ambiguous, and yet very concrete. It is a sentence I recall my mother saying one day when I was an adolescent. My father had this urge to tell us kids that day, but my mother did not want him to. I remember a strange moment, where she interrupted my father saying: “They are too young. Now is not the right time.”

So, I still had to wait for some years in my unexplained pain. I think I became an activist for breaking the silence with this project. I know it is hard, I know it feels like there is never the right time, I know that every story is different. That is why I say all of this with the utmost care. I want to invite people to think about their own silence, to question the silence of others. In that sense, I am an activist, but a whispering one.

The making of the photo book: revealing the concealment

Finally, can I say something about the making process of my photo book by The Eriskay Connection? What choices did I make to make visible and understandable the concealment of my family’s story?

I worked with my designer, Sybren Kuiper, and my publisher, The Eriskay Connection. I was learning to trust other professionals, to allow your hard work to be shaped by other minds, hearts, and hands. A rewarding process. The book is intimate; it allows people to look first at the images and feel whatever they feel. I like that they are confronted with their questions and assumptions. And then, once they put in more time and effort, they will know everything. By interacting with the book—holding the pages apart, reading the text—the secret will be unraveled.

Claudia Bigongiari