“Blood”, Khaireddine said. “I believe in blood.”

After a moment of silence, I asked him: “What kind of blood?”

“Family blood. They will always catch you when you fall.” He paused.

“I also believe in myself, that I can do anything I want to do.”

As our conversation continued, we started musing about the connection of believing in oneself and believing in blood. He believes in himself, that he can do anything he wants to do, and, at the same time, he calculates in falling – and the family, the blood, to catch him. This family blood is also running through his own veins, a separated interconnectedness because the bodies the family consists of are individual bodies sharing the same blood.

His smallest embraces this dichotomy. The canvas is soaked in blood, but you can see the individual threads, interconnected family ties. A sharp mirror piece fell in, but the blood caught it, the damage is limited – and, I must add, there was blood already, anyways! An unexpected twist of meaning? Not really, if we think about it. And thinking about it he did. A couple of weeks later he added that he might have changed his opinion, that blood was not as reliable as he thought it would be. Yet, the blood flow continues. It continues as our wound are cut and heal, it continues. Nourishing blood that is running through the family ties, bleeding blood, at times.

In the end, it is him who can hold the smallest in his own hands, symbolising that he can do anything he wants to do. As sharp as the cuts’ disruption might be, on top of being caught, he has the capacity of reflecting upon it – the mirror – and staying somewhat separate. It will never drown him, and, after all, it is him who holds it all.