Middle is a close inspection of our own life. Bogi and I are now 35, we share our suburban home with her parents. We are flourishing.

Soon after our wedding, about six years ago, Bogi became pregnant so I started to photograph her and my new family to build up a portrait of the symbiosis of all the different personalities and to document how pregnancies force her body to change over and over again. For the record the idea came from my father, who insisted that I take one comparable nude picture of her every month, but I was unable to execute as he had imagined. It seemed more honest to take photographs that betray our intimacy, that expose, that exaggerate, that give back our freedom in escape of the pathos of the situation. By the time of the birth of our third child, these sessions had become to radically inform the way we look at each other – and ourselves.

Middle is the time of intervention and prosperity. It marks the middle of life, when energies and visions are abundant. As we struggle to attain some ill-defined summit, hidden behind the clouds, days go by in a hectic and often uncontrollable congestion that accompanies the construction of a self-image incorporating family, career, home improvements and self-reproduction. This era, sparked by the conception of my oldest son, ended sharply when my mother passed away in 2010. At that time Bogi was again carrying our child.

Bogi records notes of every smallest event that often seem to exclude what I consider important. Of course, I do not write a diary and consequently only have my blurred memory of how our everyday life proceeds. During the years of work on Middle it quickly became almost impossible to place any photograph on a timeline. When Bogi offered her diary to match the dates with the photographs, I was expecting to discover embarrassing or deeply personal details but, to my greatest surprise, her notes follow the flow of daily routines with an almost unbearable considered objectivity that very rarely dares to express emotion. Looking at our life together in retrospect, given the telegram-style texts, it is as if we could have experienced any number of parallel lives that had no regard for the actual chronological order of events. So here we are.