Every
action is acted out as if it were part of a performance which is, at the same
time, personal and collective; as a consequence, every photograph captures a
moment of that performance.
Absolute
photography is not about documenting a face through pictures taken every day;
on the contrary, it is about an individual who has been concealed to sight
since the day he was born and who shows himself to others –throughout his life–
exclusively through photographs. In other words, that is how pictures could
properly bear witness to absence, since –in photography– the concept of
presence has a negative meaning. This amounts to saying that, without absence,
photography could exist only in part; it is like the colour black, which is
present in every other colour but –at the same time– can be seen only when all
the other colours are absent. The proof is that the individual who lends
himself to the fulfillment of absolute photography can give a concrete proof of
himself only at the very moment when (his) life is denied: death.
Paradoxically,
the conflict between presence and absence in photography can be solved by
taking pictures of something that does not exist, a figment of the imagination
– with the same kind of freedom which usually belongs to forms of art like
painting and drawing.
It is here that
my work as a photographer comes into play: turning pictures of real subjects
into something absurd and unreal by losing the ability to portray, witness,
describe, illustrate.
This is possible
only if we separate the image from the picture: what we obtain is a series of
objects which are independent from photography and, conceptually,
“unphotographable”.
To think that
reality is what we see in a picture is the easiest and most commonly accepted
solution; yet, it is the result of a psychic distortion.
What we have
here, instead, is the chance to create images that are the outcome of other
images (that is, images that are not real but imagined); to show something
which is totally absent.
This reflection
–which is a short explanation of photography in general and of my work as a
photographer in particular– is, essentially, a somewhat messy approach to the
concept of image we are fed everyday, and the reason is that the way we are
taught to look at reality is aberrant and one-dimensional.
As a
consequence, we are mentally bound to a distorted idea of the use of the image
and of its function – and, therefore, of photography (because the boundaries
between ideal and real are so vague); yet, we are so deeply linked to this idea
of photography (because that is what we are taught) that we assume it to be
real just as we do for any other optical illusion.
The perfect
conclusion for this paradox would be to invent an absolute camera: a device
that, with every shot, replicates the same image over and over. This would be
the only exhaustive role for photography: to endlessly reproduce itself.
The main issue,
therefore, is how we aesthetically relate to reality; in other words, to admit
that every aspect of a relationship (with reality, with the others) is a
representation which would cease to be so if only we gave up conventions.
Yet, if this
were possible, new conventions would arise which, in turn, would shape other
representations; and since it is not possible for us not to create
representations and, therefore, to see reality differently than in the
aforementioned one-dimensional way, our use of photography can be all but
partial.
As a
consequence, we are not able to understand the positive way in which
photography interferes with our conventions... Photography is somewhat of an
alien.
The ambition to
bring an image to a further, successive level implies the creation of new
perceptual realities. Every action undertaken in this light increases the
difference between the future condition of the image and its initial
appearance – what we can define as
“model” or “prototype”.
The result of
this kind of work should be seen as an enhancement that I achieve by editing
the image: by overloading it with –or depriving it of– information.
Theoretically
speaking, this process can be compared to overwriting the initial –primitive
and less evolved– image with data which resembles that already existing on it
but which is meant to be its evolution.
We are mistaken
if we think that a photograph can seize a portion of reality in an image
(despite the fact that our perception is not able to grasp it and, therefore,
to assert its existence); we are mistaken if we think that we can even freeze
an image in a precise moment of its existence (of its progressive aging –of
matter and meaning– and of its position in the context) and deny it its own
history.
In my work, on
the contrary, I try to force this common fate of the image.
It could be said
that, when I edit an image, on the one hand I try to
dismantle and erase its apparent qualities – as if I needed to turn it upside
down and recreate it from scratch; on the other, I try to bring it up to date
(even only just to test reality or our personal perception of it) to help
people recognize it in/for the present.
Sometimes I’m
afraid I might be obsessed with photography, but then I realise that photographs
(and here I mean prints exclusively) are not static images; on the contrary,
they are constantly in motion. Pictures are living things, creatures, almost
animals: full of expression (personality, I dare say), growth, cycles, chemical
reactions and mistakes that can not be corrected. More than other –more static–
form of arts (like painting), more than digital products, computers or sci-fi
robots, photographs can be treated as another living species.