It finally happened. The slaughterhouse was killed. Irony of fate, end up murdered, a place that brings death always in the name: after having made a lot of slaughterhouses in here, now he was to be torn to pieces.
For once, though, crime has no victim. Why being torn to pieces, the slaughterhouse has finally been released. It is now lying so free of purpose, free from having to be something, and so free to be anything.
. After being the scene of the slaughter of so many decades, now is the slaughter stage. Populated by extras who do not have a defined role. And for that reason could recite all the roles. A host of extras who now have found their audience and their director in the eyes of the camera lens alien.
. Already, the human eye is not their audience. It is their director. We humans are not involved in this stage: it is our investigators. Our attention is called to investigate this strange crime, instead of ending, has established a new beginning. The photographs in front of you eyes are witness to, and with the perfect alibi. No corpse, in fact, will fill the earth with his flesh decomposed. The body is still there. Under the eyes of all. Same as always. So what was killed, really?
. Nothing, really. This is what the body was made out to be embodied. Its meaning, its image. In short, it was a crime in effigy. A perfect crime. Why be so in its final, has not really changed anything. The body of the slaughter is still there, same as before. Only, he changed lives. He became a free construction. And his limbs were torn apart not only by the human eye of a camera.
. *** One shooting full-blown, what is consumed at the scene of slaughter. By a curious coincidence, in fact, shooting in English means both take photos and shoot. As if to say that the perfect weapon for a crime in effigy, in image, could be just a machine to produce images. A lens that allows the eye of mind of the photographer to see what they would know not only imagine. A prosthesis of the look of someone who has the talent to commit a murder yet to be invented. A Peeping Tom, an eye to see, hurts the darkness with a ray of light.
. cold light, like the sharp scalpel of a skilled surgeon who knows exactly where to cut. The light that we see in a photo does not heat, does not originate, it radiates through anything. This light does not exist. Why no eye, alone, would see it.
Yet it is she who makes us see. Dissects the objects, invents the contours, puts them in focus, separating them from the background. Multiply the views of leading our gaze to details that had previously lived only as part of a whole, doomed to be mere parts of that whole, was something that only.
. But now that everything has been killed, cut up, they often are, the pieces, which can breathe free. And if they laugh, on the sidelines. Smooth curves, useless blobs of color, smudge awkward, grotesque scale: small details finally free to also mean something to them.
For this, the true picture is always the picture of paradox. Photographer's dream because of something that is always more than what it is.
. The light from outside is not printed on the film: in fact, is the vibration of a neuron, an idea that is forming inside the head of the photographer. Only he, in fact, has in his head smashed to pieces as the members could look back together in the lens. Only he knows how they might be, as can be. Or as they are already, without which no one has ever noticed. Besides, what is the future, if not the past itself, viewed from a point of view flipped?
. pictures, then, is to show the future possibility of what everyone has always had under his eyes, but never able to see it. Something so obvious, so part of our daily life that always manages to elude us. So when we see in the picture, we find something familiar. Without knowing what it is, there is always something that attracts our attention. Here, then, we have found a clue.
. And we can venture out in the survey that will ultimately bring clarity in this senseless slaughter: slaughter of images, slaughter of colors, memories of slaughter, the slaughterhouse of visions: a slaughterhouse of stories yet to be told.
0 comments:
Post a Comment