I am a traditional photographer who celebrates 'a still photograph still being a photograph' - unaltered and truthful with the analog touch. A body of work that is varied yet distinctive with a classic and passionate style. Diverse photography with a vision on each image, created to take on a journey and to give a glimpse or private insight into a life, a moment, a history. Each image tries to be special, unique and very memorable. Timeless. There are elements of photography that remain despite the modernization of the art, it all reverts back to the photographic eye and the ability to capture the image. The camera can write poetry. In visual storytelling, a narrative places the viewer in a world within a single frame. The story that is portrayed could be fiction or fact but it also creates depth, the narrative reveals the complex layers of metaphors in many of my photographs. Photographs, like women, should most certainly challenge and intrigue, ignite some interaction. The best photographs continually speak but without revealing all their secrets, they are like sophisticated women and they are truly addictive because the addicted viewer shall be rewarded. A photographer should remain unpredictable and so always stay true to your promise to take the viewer on a suspense-filled journey of discovery.
Cicciolina takes you on a journey of revenge, lust, and sacrifice. What many would see as a stunning young woman turns out to be a cunning vixen, rotten as an apple hung too long on the tree well into fall. Left by her father too early in life, the victim of men and their lecherous eyes, scarred from years of broken hearts and lies, our darling Cicciolina takes to the road. With her suitcase in tow she hunts, patiently, innocently - driven by a well-calculated plan. Taking a man's car, his heart, and much more to make peace with the pagan Gods who haunt her night after night. Every lover a lamb to the slaughter. The roles were reversed and the wolf now slayed. A quick flick of the wrist and the tables turn, she claims his heart, his soul to burn. Sadness and anger the fertilizer for her growing orchard of mistrust, deceit, and revenge. Revenge upon the entire species. The pedal to the metal, every mile adding to her intoxicating allure. In search of an oblation, a sacrificial lamb to cleanse her dark soul. If you have wheels that catch her eye and a selfish hunger that you can't disguise, be warned, you will be next to find the burn that comes from meeting her rope. The rope that bound it all, that kept her secrets wrapped up tight, was the one thing that onlookers could see but few could truly know just how special it really was. Much more than a rope, a trusted tool, a friend to the end. ~ Francesca
"I’ll stop wearing black when they invent a darker color!" There was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smoldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without turning around spoke to him in a soft, coarse voice: “If you want to be safe, go back to your tiny house - the night sky is not for you. The road is life, if you want to be torn apart, let’s go and you will be broken open and devoured, set ablaze in my fire not leaving well dressed, in finely-threaded clothing that keeps out the cold. I will leave you naked and biting in the backseat. So, come to me, and be healed of the unbearable white and black of all that you are. I will become a raging river, and spill myself upon your thoughts, can you love me under the starry sky, shaved and smooth, my skin like liquid moonlight?” Perception is everything and she drove him to distraction as he intimately pictured her in his dreams. She is the quintessential instinctual criatura and her style is her expression. Her style is her silent speech, a certain flow of mind-to-skin that must be understood. Black has it all, white too, their beauty is absolute. Her style is her sentiment, it is what she shares, it’s those intimate words she shares every time she looks into the mirror -- or every time she looks at her photographs.
Ordinary women never appeal to one’s imagination. No glamor ever transfigures them. One can always find them, obtainable everywhere, at all times. No mystery is in any of them. They show their stereotyped smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. She takes a drive today, time to emancipate. From her handbag she takes a round gilt compact with violets on the cover. She opens it, unclosing her other self, and runs her fingertip around the corners of her mouth, left one, right one; then she swivels a pink stick and dots her cheeks and blends them, changing her shape, performing magic to herself. Pink on the cheeks; black discreetly around the eyes, as red as blood as black as ebony, a seamed and folded imitation of a magazine picture that is itself an imitation of a woman who is also an imitation, the original nowhere, a captive princess in someone’s head. Even an immaculately crafted porcelain doll could not have been as lovely. Beauty is given to dolls, majesty to haughty vixens -- but mind, feeling and the crowning grace of fortitude are the attributes of an angel.
The misty afternoon sunk into the tall grass growing on the roadside. An angel's face showing up at the crossroad. Could ya give me a lift, Mista? Cicciolina came from Sicil-y, hitchhiked her way across Ital-y. Hauling her case, thumbin’ a ride. Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic voyager whose home is the road. She is free in her wildness, she is a wanderess, a drop of free water. She knows nothing of borders and cares nothing for rules. Time for her isn’t something to fight against. Her life flows clean, with passion, like fresh water. As for you girls, you must risk everything for freedom, and give everything for passion, loving everything that your hearts and your bodies love. The only thing higher for a girl and more sacred for a young woman than her freedom and her passion should be her desire to make her life into poetry, surrendering everything she has to create a life as beautiful as the dreams that dance in her imagination. You may call her a tramp, a gypsy, but it goes deeper than that. She's not looking for anything. She's not aimless. It's just that her aims are different from most. No longer to be poisoned by civilization she flees and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the wild. And home she wrote: Dear Mom, I've hitchhiked to eternity. I shall not return -- don't be mad.
Hey, you who are sitting there on the hill with that little photographic jar box in your hands, when you look at me what do you see? So few people take the time anymore. Do you see how I am shackled to this shoreline fated to dream of the ocean but never swim in it? My antennae feel its pulse, I gauge its flow and current. I'm steadfast in my consistency unaffected by storm or condition and did you know that my design was created when Jesus was a boy? My arms may be old, my skill obsolete but don't write me off just yet. Old is anyone who stops learning and tired doesn't mean lazy. My every goodbye isn't yet gone, so take my picture, because I heard somewhere that photographs give an appearance of participation. Let me tell you, aging doesn't need any fairy tales. ~ Kalahari
It is as important where a young man begins his journey with daydreams, as when. Fantasies spawned in youth, with lily pad squatters croaking out nature’s secrets, stir the imagination and set a boy to wonderment. The depths of dark ponds hold the mysteries of life, none of which can be seen by the naked eye. Yet, the agile mind of boyhood finds caverns and creatures seemingly not of this world, not of these times. Silver scaled beasts diving and darting. Snake tailed salamanders lurking amongst the brush, glimpses of color against a black and white backdrop. The hum of a dragonfly, off on a mission, carrying precious information to woodland allies hidden nearby. The mystique of hard shelled guardians that rise to the surface in calming silence to offer a warning, stay up top to avoid the marsh monsters. As you can see, fishing for whales is not easy work, with their tall tails spinning even taller tales. The riddles of the life of a man begin with a boy, a pole, and rickety boat. ~ Francesca
Film makers have numerous frames in a second. They have minutes or hours, actors and background music to tell a story. As a photographer, you have a single frame only and you have to trust the image to tell the story. Photographs can never be an accessory to the story, they must contain it so the best pictures contain a whole war within one frame. Photographs may be more memorable than moving images because they are a neat slice of time, not a flow. Each still photograph is a privileged moment turned into a slim object that one can keep and look at again. I don’t strive for the perfect image. I prefer photographs with some imperfections, mostly they are more simpatico. Perfection is a boring end and is dishonest if we are to believe that photography reflects life. Although a photograph must reflect the truth. This is the unwritten contract between the photographer and the viewer. A photographer must be credible -- No lies. No fakes. Pure, raw and honest.
The Farmer’s daughters watched in the rain. The prettiest, shyest one hid far back in the field to watch and she had good reason because she was absolutely and finally the most beautiful girl. She was about sixteen and had a plain complexion like wild roses, and the bluest eyes, the most lovely hair, and the modesty and quickness of a wild antelope. At every look she flinched. She stood there with the immense winds that blew clear down from Saskatchewan knocking her hair about her lovely head like shrouds, living curls of them. She blushed and blushed. Oh, a girl like that scares me, and I’d give up everything and throw myself on her mercy and if she didn’t want me I’d just as simply go and throw myself off the edge of the world. It’s okay, girl, we’ll make it till the sun goes down forever. And until then what you got to lose but the losing? We’re fallen angels who didn’t believe that nothing means nothing. We are nothing. Tomorrow we may be die -- we are nothing, you and me.
Be ever mindful, dear Sir, that not all pretty faces have pretty intentions and not all lone travelers are lonesome. Gingerly she began placing the gimcracks away, and stood slowly, in a most refrained way. 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 knees. 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. And as he began to load her things from the ditch, she watched his muscles dance beneath his shirt and began to savor this latest hitch. 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. And so, dear knight of the road, take care when a sweet hitchhiker attracts you on the crossroad -- your name might already be written on Hell's gate! ~ Francesca