On the world’s stage, a dance emerges as a final attempt to preserve memory. Alba is the photograph of a memory, the testimony of a journey. Albania becomes the outline of a place, lost among blurred violet and striped images. In the living room of a house, figures hidden in a distant time begin to take shape: a ship smells of concrete, the forest is silent,
three gunshots, the sky.
In the waiting, a family remains motionless among the scents of the past and the calm sea. In a fleeting instant, the ancient taste of a home from another time takes shape — a home that here seems to belong to the present, blurring perception through the impossibility, made possible here, of returning twenty, thirty, forty years into the past.
Through archival footage and the gestures of a body that remembers, Alba creates a dance before the light, in the glow of a beginning, pursuing the wide-open evidence of a cry for return, until the moment when every spoken language seems to become the same.