At the edge of the village, the forest stops abruptly, the boundary cut cleanly into the ranks of dark pine. In the winter, the demarcation stands out harshly against the snow. The streets are spotless, the houses austere and well-maintained, doors shut and windows tightly fastened. Behind the picturesque façades, the village has the tense, silent air of a place that has been abandoned. The only occupants are costumed figures peering out silently from behind masks, and a few humans that look as though they belong to another time. This is the landscape of Christina Stohn’s childhood, but her photographs contain no trace of nostalgia. Instead, they reflect on the Black Forest region as a place where everything is strange and familiar at the same time.