It is a window and a mirror, as dark as the sins it conceals. A trading post, for souls that is. It shows the vacancy of the minds of those who are lost; the neat exchange of a soul for a lead role in the cage. The photograph evokes a sense of loneliness and therefore true freedom, and if it had to emit a sound, it would be the song of the wind that blows through these places. The winds can howl, or gently whisper but remain unheard to those who choose to disconnect and exist in this fantastic reality but do you think they can tell that smile from a veil? Can you? To make sense of it, to be safe you must tame a photograph like you must tame wild women because then they will comfortably fit in this ever-shrinking world of manipulated thought and expectation, but what if instead of taming it, you let it tell a thousand stories that it contains? Of course, doing this comes at a cost. Be warned. You would have to taste its wildness through your own imagination. For me, I love its irony. Photographs steal time yet this subject is timeless, it is just like a thief stealing from the thief. ~ Kalahari
It is about that moment. The perfect moment. The allure is in the detail. The stillness. The light. Light is the way the story is told. It is the narrative. Certain moments of light have a poetic condition that fascinates. It has a transformative quality and has the power of turning the ordinary into something scintillating. It interests. Feel the nostalgia that exists somewhere between the beauty and sadness. The tension of the moment. Time is a relentless melt that the photograph testifies to. Moments should be breathed, tasted a bit like a taste of wine. This photograph tastes like the back of a fucking L.A. school bus for they probably did not destem, hoping for some semblance of concentration, crushed it up with leaves and mice, and then wound up with this rancid tar and turpentine bullshit. Fuckin' Raid. Time is hungry and greedy, insatiable but photographs steal its moments. This might render time frozen and mute, but do not be fooled. They are delightfully naughty. Photographs dare to flirt with the monster of time. Photographs allow us to savor and so slow it. Go back to it again and again. Let a photograph affect you and do not anticipate. It will resonate long after you walk away.
Looking into the lens I ask myself: "People spot a big black lens, and they worry about what they are doing, or how their hair looks, but nobody sees the person holding the camera." I had fallen hard for the whole gadgetry, eye-like nature of the thing. A piece of glass slowing, bending, organizing light, the film keeping the image like a secret, tucked neatly into the sleek black box. The first cameras had only inventors, buffs and enthusiasts to operate them. Since there were then no professional photographers, there couldn't be amateurs either. It was a gratuitous, that is, an artistic activity, though with few pretensions to being an art. It was only with its industrialization that photography came into its own as art. What it once took a very intelligent eye to see, anyone can see now. Recently, photography has become almost as widely practiced an amusement as sex and dancing, which means that, like every mass art form, photography is not practiced as an art. Photographers think that everything that is not photographed is lost, as if it never existed, and therefore in order to really live you must photograph as much as you can, and to photograph as much as you can you must either live in the most photographable way possible, or else consider photographable every moment of your life.
Be ever mindful, dear Sir, that not all pretty faces have pretty intentions and not all lone travelers are lonesome. She was in the process of straightening her sundress and trying to appear not to notice him when she caught his attention and his foot found the brake. The car skidded on the gravel for a few feet before coming to an abrupt stop almost kissing her dress. She bit her full lip to resist the urge to grin, cut her obsidian eyes and lowered her delicate chin. The introductions were short as she was so exhausted and overcome from these hours on the road, helpless and stunned. He rose valiantly to the call of shining knight, scooping her up into his chariot to her carnal delight. Little did he know, this clueless stranger, that nothing going through his mind was a mystery to her. She knew what he was thinking, she knew that he was like all the others. A bee drawn to her nectar, not keen enough to realize that the more beautiful the flower, the sharper the thorn. She took great care to assure that her hem rode up just enough to keep him distracted, to shake him a bit, for his nervous chatter was quite revealing. He was not a knight after all, that much she knew. He would prove his worth eventually, his true colors would show and she would be free to take control. He never saw the glint of the blade, as the stars blinked as to not witness and her dagger set him straight. ~ Francesca
And I see all the houses of the human race perched on the edge of the sea, shipwrecked in their false neighborliness. Cold has a thousand ways of moving in the world: on the sea, it gallops like a troop of horses, on the countryside it falls like a swarm of locusts, in the cities like a knife-blade it slashes the streets and penetrates the chinks of unheated houses. Many miles away there exists a small stairway leading upwards to flats unfolding like a book; every single life is an encyclopedia, a comprehensive library, an inventory of objects, a series of styles, and everything can be constantly shuffled and reordered in every way conceivable. Each of us is the object of the other's reading, one reads in the other the unwritten story. By separating the individual human chapters, rain gutters scar over the house's facade and leading off, just like veins, the myriads of the tears not cried. There are no lighted ground-floor windows, each with a woman combing her hair, but at night, putting your ear to the ground, you can sometimes hear a door slam. And thus, when some people happen to find themselves together, meetings, seductions, copulations and orgies are consummated among them without a single word exchanged, and without a finger touching anything and almost without an eye raised.
Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places. When you're young, all evolution lies before you, every road is open to you. The dreamed-of city contained him as a young man; he arrives there in his old age. And nothing was left that could remind him of it, even remotely, nothing except perhaps that cold wall of gray stone or other shops which look like them and the colors of the writing on the shop signs. In the square, there is the wall where the old men sit and watch the young go by. Childhood boredom is a special kind of boredom. It is a boredom full of dreams, a sort of projection into another place, into another reality. In adulthood boredom is made of repetition, it is the continuation of something from which we are no longer expecting any surprise. Desires are already memories. Instead of taking one road he had taken the opposite one, and after long wandering, he had come to be in the place of those men in that square.
Seeing a mother in her beach chair, reading a book under an umbrella by the water's edge while her children play beside her and she was suddenly and strangely reminded of being four years old at the beach, crying when the wind came up and blew away the castle she had made. Her mother had told her she could make another one if she liked, but it hadn't stopped her crying because what she had thought was permanent was not permanent after all, but only made out of sand that vanished at the touch of wind and water. Beauty - what is beauty, forsooth? Form and color, that is surface only. Fortune - what is fortune? Nothing is ever a pleasure to him who has to labor for it. Truth - you die in the pursuit, and the sea beats the beach as it did a thousand years ago. Some people might have a shallow understanding of what it means to be alive, but you don't need a whole lot. Being in the water and smelling that salt air and hearing the seagulls. Free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there, with the fallopian virgin warm stars reflecting on the outer channel fluid belly waters. The beach becomes a kind of Utopia. The place where all your dreams might come true.
In spite of all the advances of civilization, the woman has remained as she came out of the hand of nature. She has the nature of a savage, who is faithful or faithless, magnanimous or cruel, according to the impulse that dominates her at the moment. Art should be functional. And art should tell a story; a narrative that places you in the situation of every photograph, allowing the viewer to be as closest to the soul of the subject as possible. The distinctive feature of the photographer is his ability to surprise and to exceed our expectations. But who really knows what is on in the photographer's mind when work is created? "Decipher me or I will devour you!" The female bloom, nearly stripped, but never obvious, nor offering little, rides lightly on the time's line where space opens into the high plain's depth. The feminine form factor, represented by the curves of elegance and playfulness, positioned in a barren, male landscape, symbolizing life's portraiture of relationships. The joining of the two human universes, male and female, merged in nature's perfect but rare Fibonacci harmony.