A Light Without Shadow Generates An Emotion

As Spectator I Wanted To Explore Photography Not As A Question (a Theme) But As A Wound.

For The Photograph's Immobility Is Somehow The Result Of A Perverse Confusion Between Two Concepts: The Real And The Live: By Attesting That The Object Has Been Real, The Photograph Surreptitiously Induces Belief That It Is Alive, Because Of That Delusion Which Makes Us Attribute To Reality An Absolute Superior, Somehow Eternal Value; But By Shifting This Reality To The Past ("this-has-been"), The Photograph Suggests That It Is Already Dead.

Are Not Couturiers The Poets Who, From Year To Year, From Strophe To Strophe, Write The Anthem Of The Feminine Body?

It Is Said That Mourning, By Its Gradual Labour, Slowly Erases Pain; I Could Not, I Cannot Believe This; Because For Me, Time Eliminates The Emotion Of Loss (i Do Note Weep), That Is All. For The Rest, Everything Has Remained Motionless. For What I Have Lost Is Not A Figure (the Mother), But A Being; And Not A Being, But A Quality (a Soul): Not The Indispensable, But The Irreplaceable.

New York... Is A City Of Geometric Heights, A Petrified Desert Of Grids And Lattices, An Inferno Of Greenish Abstraction Under A Flat Sky, A Real Metropolis From Which Man Is Absent By His Very Accumulation.