PEIKA is a Bulgarian word that simply translates to "bench." But like many words in forgotten languages, it carries the weight of memory and its own history. According to folklorist Georg Kraev, whose passion for Bulgarian folklore and culture I witnessed firsthand, the bench is more than just a place to sit—it is a place to sing. The word originates from the long, drawn-out centuries of Ottoman occupation,when elderly women, invisible in their perceived harmlessness, became secret informants for the rebels. They sang songs that were like rhymed maps, warning of the movement of Turkish soldiers. These songs spread through the depths of the forests, passed from rebel to rebel as primal knowledge, a means of survival, of planning, and gaining a lead.
Today, the bench is, at best, a place for a brief pause in the endless flow of movement and anxiety. It is not a place to settle; it is a transition.
When I first went out to do street photography, I felt the sharp discomfort from the lack of control over the construction of the story. For me, the city seemed to refuse to offer the kind of situations, the spontaneous moments filled with cultural refrains, that make a street photograph good. Nevertheless, I continued to walk, for the act of observation itself. I discovered that, for me, the Person was more important. The exploration of a character—quiet, motionless, reflecting the vibration of life, the soul of the city .
For me, PEIKA is a document of contemporary Berlin—a city that exerts its influence on the characters that drive it, or on those who seek to assert their power over it. It captures the colors, habits, and the subtle resistance to the monotony of each passing day. This project will evolve, will change, just as I will. But perhaps it will always retain a trace of its origin—a place for singing that reflects the truth of its urban occupants.
Welcome to my bench.