Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she used to be. But a great artist, a master, can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is - and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be. And more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an Armadillo, or even you, see that this lovely young girl is still alive, but simply prisoned inside her body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart, no matter what the merciless hours have done to her. Look at her, my friend - growing old doesn't matter to you and me; we were never meant to be admired -- but it does to them.
Look at children. Of course they may quarrel, but generally speaking they do not harbor ill feelings as much or as long as adults do. Most adults have the advantage of education over children, but what is the use of an education if they show a big smile while hiding negative feelings deep inside. Children don’t act in such a manner. If they feel angry with someone, they express it, and then it is finished. They can still play with that person the following day.
The Indians say to draw someone’s portrait is to steal their soul, I take photographs, does it mean that I am just borrowing them? But photography is like stealing – you rob someone of a moment that exposes something essential about their character, their soul if you like. To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed. The terrifying thought that everyone, friend of foe, can get so close to you, look you straight in the eye and judge you without having any control over it or being able to respond. A part of them has become the property of the photographer. To photograph someone is a subliminal murder, appropriate to a sad, frightened time.
Yes, maybe that is what they call a Mona Elisa smile I got on my puss. Big Shot, you left me without a Coke in the car! You like to photograph me to sleep? Sometimes you don’t seem to give me credit for very much intelligence at all. Hey, I’m a magazine reader! There’s a need for a girl that hides in a ‘lil truck to stay away from the photographer and I don’t want to be shot by a boy that would make me stay in a car as tiny as a crib! Big Shot, you’re a mess. Do you know what they call such people? Peepin’ Toms! -- Stop taking pictures or I’m gonna plug up your lens with Chewin’ Gum!
A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets, little did I know that when the photographer asked to take my picture he would expose mine. He was supposed to see in black and white. Do not display these little facts saved for my secret place. In this world I float free, releasing my grip on life and the past. I get to miss all of those of whom I have lost sight, those who will forever have a part of me. Here I face truth's spectrum of love and shadows, I must. If not these shadows will creep into my existence, my conscience and cause the ghost of me to haunt all I touch, this ghost that climbs on the table in her bridal negligee. You may try to raise your arm against her but you will just catch that bridal bouquet so dance with her, slowly and patiently with a lover's embrace. She will turn your terror into a fire of desire. See the beauty of the non-beautiful -- and ignite your own wild creature. ~ Kalahari
You wonder what it is and so you pause along the way. Something lures there waiting, sleek and slim and cold. Better just keep moving, as you were told. But it isn’t all that far from the path you’re on. A couple of steps are all it takes to be there, by her side. So you take just a few steps – what can be the harm? Is she safe to approach or is she only sleeping? Is she waiting until you’re too close to get away? And didn’t your mother ever tell you, you should not go from the path? Didn’t she warn you of the dangers – or did you roll your eyes and laugh? There are things you shouldn’t touch. And things you shouldn’t try. If you’re lucky she’ll make you bleed and cry. And if you aren’t lucky -- say Good Bye!
When I am in my car I am laid back. I guess it was the beatings that made me wise. I took a drive today, time to emancipate, to drive, not to be driven. Cars are the ultimate symbol of freedom, independence and individualism; they offer the freedom to go anywhere, whenever it suits and with whomever one chooses. The whole idea of the road, of going from one place to another, is essentially American. And when Henry Ford made cheap, reliable cars people said, ‘Nah, what’s wrong with the horse?’ That was a huge bet he made -- and it worked.
I see it all through the lens of my camera – the flurry of movement, the venue girl staff in short dresses, giving orders into their heads. As I take it all in, my mind weighs the texture, the composition, the possibility of each changing scene, and I struggle to hold back, to keep my finger from pressing too soon -- click, click. With the Daguerreotype everyone was able to have their portrait taken, formerly it was only the prominent, and at the same time everything is being done to make us all look exactly the same, so we shall only need one portrait. It is a cruel, ironical art. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past; should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down. Photography is all about secrets. The secrets we all have and will never tell. A photograph is a secret about a secret -- the more it tells you, the less you know.
Pictures can’t be accessories to the story, they have to contain the story within the frame. The best pictures contain a whole war within one frame. As a filmmaker you have numerous frames a second, and minutes or hours, to tell a story. As a photographer you have one single frame only. A photographer can’t write a dialogue. No talking actors. You merely have to trust the image to tell the story. 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. But there exists an unwritten contract – a form of a codex – between the photographer and the viewer: a photograph must reflect the truth, a photographer must be credible -- No lies. No fakes. Raw and honest.
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 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. 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. Now, she need only wait for the time to strike, and she knew it would come. 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
There's something predatory about photography, it's the same with love. This mystery allows a glimpse of herself through the trap of the photographer's lens. Through this window she leads you down a road just far enough to show that she is present, you sense there's more to her than she cares to reveal but this is tantalizing, captivating. She will relieve your burden to hunt, her elegance and mystery causing you to be the envy of all hunters and so she becomes yours and gets entangled in your fisherman's net. Love is perculiar, unfathomable. In wise stories it's seldom a romantic tryst between two lovers, rather it's a combination of understanding and misunderstanding but it's an allure that pulls the photographic eye. There will come a time however, that you see that part of her. That part that the photographer did not reveal, the skeletal vision that will follow you where you run. She is the one of whom most men are terrified but if you can endure, if you can find kindness somewhere to untangle and embrace her then she will reward you with passion. The mystery of her will voluptuously feed your every want and need, the destination of her remaining forever a million miles away. It's simple Sir -- are you brave enough to sleep with Lady Death? ~ Kalahari
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