Rodina by Irina Ruppert, takes you on a voyage, keeping you as the beholder affectionate yet distant, keeping you from judging and taking any specific perspective. The beholder merely looks on, quietly and dreamily, like a child in timid amazement. Looking at the grandmother, who sits awkwardly on the rim of her bed staring at a box that shows adults talking. Looking at the boy with the bike and the goat, at a child’s eye level. All pictures hold this aspect of observation and “attempt to understand”. Like the look of a growing child who does not understand the world of adults quite yet: the view from afar into a church, the funeral, but also the kissing parents. The book conveys such a quietness, soundlessness. I look at the picture with the turning man in the field and I don’t hear anything; it is like a silent film or like a dream.