On the world stage, a dance appears as a last-ditch attempt to preserve memory.
Alba is a snapshot of a memory, a testimony to a journey. Albania represents the silhouette of a place, lost amidst blurred purple and striped images. In the living room, figures hidden in a distant time take shape: a ship smells of concrete, the wood is silent, three gunshots, the sky.
Whilst waiting, a family stands motionless amidst the scents of days gone by and the calm sea.
In that fleeting moment, the old-fashioned charm of a home from another era takes shape; here it feels like the present, blurring the lines due to the impossibility—which is, here, possible—of going back twenty, thirty, forty years.
Through archive footage and the gestures of a body that remembers, Alba creates a dance before dawn, in the glow of a new beginning, and chases the stark reality of a cry for return, back to a time when every spoken language seemed the same.