Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty; that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on them, will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn’t rain down yesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck doesn’t even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms. The nobodies, nobody’s children, owners of nothing, the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way. The nobodies, who are not, but could be. Who don’t speak languages, but dialects. Who don’t create art, but handicrafts. The nobodies, who don’t have culture, but folklore. Who are not human beings, but human resources. They, who do not have names, but numbers -- the nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.
Great artists make the roads; but there ain’t no free rides, baby. No hitchhiking. And if you want to strike out in any new direction – you go alone. With a machete in your hand and the fear of God in your heart. Creative vision? Help! Sorry, this is an art gallery’s nomenclature. I’m a photographer, less an artist. As the word ‘art’ might scare people off. I take a photograph because it’s there, and I’m there, and because I can do it. It’s a passion. A life’s journey seen through the lens, for all to see and feel as they each will, personally. In my opinion a camera is a mirror of a photographer’s soul, reflected in the work done. The 'click' of the camera signs the work. My work is signed with a heartprint -- without heart photographs would be mere images.
It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies -- and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life.
The point in photography is that you picture what you know is there not what you can see. Am I in the picture? Am I getting in or out of it? I could be a ghost, an animal or a dead body, not just this woman placed against this wall. Photographs don’t discriminate between the living and the dead. In the fragments of time and shards of light that compose them, everyone is equal. Now you see us; now you don’t. It doesn’t matter whether you look through a camera lens and press the shutter. It doesn’t even matter whether you open your eyes or close them. The pictures are always there. And so are the people in them. We can’t get outside the aura. We’re part of the aura. We’re here, we’re now.
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.
I am a soul snapper. I want the essential, nothing more. Remember, I am young and I know nothing. I am on the road to find out what moves me in life. Life is so much funnier behind these lenses. Come on, I am not looking for the sense of life. It’s all about having fun, knowing new places, smelling, tasting, feeling it with all all my senses, my lenses. I came so far. I left nothing behind. Life is a journey brother, and photography is the shepherd. Photography is the best way where you can save your sweet past. Take lots of photos, because you will forget most of what you see when you are traveling through life. But keep in mind: a ‘still photograph still is a photograph’ and bloody Photoshop can go stuff it. A picture should be honest, even if the subject is contrived on the ground -- not dolled up for advertising punch or sex appeal.
It seems positively unnatural to travel for pleasure without taking a camera along. Photographs will offer indisputable evidence that the trip was made, that the program was carried out, that fun was had. A way of certifying experience, taking photographs is also a way of refusing it – by limiting experience to a search for the photogenic, by converting experience into an image, into a souvenir. The camera makes everyone a tourist in other people’s reality, and eventually in one’s own. Needing to have reality confirmed and experience enhanced by photographs is an aesthetic consumerism to which everyone is now addicted -- and traveling becomes a strategy for accumulating photographs.
The camera can be lenient; it is also expert at being cruel. But its cruelty only produces another kind of beauty, according to the surrealist preferences which rule photographic taste. Surrealism lies at the heart of the photographic enterprise; in the very creation of a reality in the second degree, narrower but more dramatic than the one perceived by natural vision. Photographs are perhaps the most mysterious of all objects that make up, and thicken, the environment we recognize as modern. Photographs really are experience captured, and the camera is the ideal arm of the consciousness in its acquisitive mood. The ultimate wisdom of the photographic image is to say: there is the surface, and now think – or rather feel, intuit – what is beyond it, what the reality must be like if it looks that way.
To be a seductress for a photographer. What was the woman like before she was photographed? What did she look like, how was she different from other women, how was she similar to other women? Riding in cars with girls. Women in the company of cars & why they drive the way the way they do. Women are the make up for cars. For photography too. Girls & women, muses & models, as well as other females, were the sources of creative expression for myriads of photographers and probably also for any other creative person out there since the term art was inaugurated. But keep in mind that therefore creating a work of art takes patience and understanding and a tremendous lightness of being.
Nowadays the car has become an article of dress without which we feel uncertain, unclad, and incomplete in the urban compound. One has to go back a while to recall a time when cars were simply means of transportation. In those days, they were just considered automobiles. Today, cars are extensions of their owners. They make statements about the character and status of their owners. They are loved, polished and pampered. They elicit a wide range of emotions, ranging from exasperation when they don’t work to pure delight when they are expensive, beautiful and drive like a dream -- they cause people to stare and drool and say ‘some day ...’