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.
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.
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.
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 ...’
Unfamiliar with the local streets, just as me, she did run up some closed gates. When finally she tried to escape by foot one of her French heels broke off. Still exhausted by the car chase, oh man, I can tell you she really knows how to drive fast, I asked her: “You are Mrs. Columbo?” She looked up at me, surprisingly in a friendly manner, and replied: “Y’know, in all the years we had this car, this is the first time I took the top down. But, oh my little boy, don’t get fooled, Mrs. Columbo has never been seen, and probably never existed.” She was pointing to her headscarf, “I am, hm, can’t you see, I am just Madame De Papillon.” Once more I lifted the Graflex to frame her, but no more film sheets left. She noted my mess and a cheeky little smile surrounded her red lips when she walked away -- with the broken shoes in her hands.
In the first light of dawn, in the coastline’s haze, leaning from the steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, an invisible landscape conditions the visible one. The city outside there has a name, yet we don’t know if it will remain outside or whether its whole story will be contained within the blueprint’s inky blackness. If you want to know how much darkness there is around you, you must sharpen your eyes, peering at the faint lights in the distance. The city displays one face to the traveler arriving overland and a different one to him who arrives by sea. With cities, it is as if with dreams: everything imaginable can be dreamed, but even the most unexpected dream is a rebus that conceals a desire or, its reverse, a fear. Thus, the first secret spot that draws you outside is a stump and board bench on a high terrace overlooking the sea and the bay. With a never-ending view and a stunted tree for shelter, like a bird’s wing to stick your head under, you are hidden. No one knows where you are -- your mother is calling and you are not answering.
Photography is an elegiac art, a twilight art. Most subjects photographed are, just by virtue of being photographed, touched with pathos. An ugly or grotesque subject may be moving because it has been dignified by the attention of the photographer. A beautiful subject can be the object of rueful feelings, because it has aged or decayed or no longer exists. The very question of whether photography is, or is not, an art is essentially a misleading one. Although photography generates works that can be called art – it requires subjectivity, it can lie, it gives aesthetic pleasure – photography is not, to begin with, an art form at all. It is a medium in which works of art, among other things, are made.
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.
Limited Editions are exclusive: printed in large format, restricted to a maximum of three prints and are never issued as open editions. Open Editions are available at budget prices in formats from DIN A4 upwards. Mini Prints serve as free autograph cards »» see PRINTS