Danielle Liberman’s studio in Holon was once her grandmother’s home: an old apartment, familiar and beloved since childhood, situated in an ordinary building, gray and stubborn like its aging surroundings, which calmly refuse to keep up with the breathless rhythm of Tel Aviv and its bulimic towers.

This is the Holon of the 1960s and 1970s. The façades are slowly crumbling. The buildings are still low-rise. The shared stairwell is utilitarian and windowless. “I’m holding the light for you!” Liberman’s grandmother would call out from the second floor to the little girl who feared the light would switch off before she reached the bottom, leaving her alone in the dark. “Made it?”

Today, years later, when Liberman’s mother visits her at the studio, it is she who stands at the top, by the open door, her finger on the red button. Now it is her turn to keep the darkness away. “I’m holding the light for you!” she calls out. “Made it?”

A generational debt is repaid forward and backward in this repeated call, in the body leaning on the finger pressing the button. When was this movement learned? What of it resides in the body, and what in memory? What belongs to the action, and what to the object?

Time has scrambled this distinction, just as it has scrambled the exhibition materials accumulating through it, layer upon layer. Liberman’s own body, her mother’s body, objects from her grandmother’s apartment: all are photographed again and again, folded into one another like actual genetic material. In several works, Liberman and her mother share a single frame. Their resemblance is uncanny: facial features, physique, the lines of their movement.