When Helena sculpts she enters the room of memories and hope; she half opens the door to a secret closet. Her care for the small sculptures turns into caretaking, a portrayal and not least an invocation that life will continue. There's room enough for a love of even the terrible and the ugly that she finds as she digs where she stands. To dig where you stand is to create familiarity. But also to create memories from earlier excavations. When we look at Brunius drawings that fact becomes clear. The motif is vegetation. But the images also shows the process of the creation of the images in it self: it approaches, so to speak, the actual act of approaching. And by doing so, even earlier attempts to come close. At the same time as memories are reveling themself, they lay layers on layers. Memory is simultaneously a house that's constantly under reconstruction and a well to lose yourself in. For Brunius this is part of the journey. The journey through the journeys. Memories gets more complex, deeper if you will, as more is added. Everything exists on the same level; Helena Brunius do not search for objects that does not exist. There's no sadness, rather a contemplative consideration of everything's reoccurrence.