At some point, maybe somewhere around 1999 that I became especially unsatisfied with my photographs. Whatever I was doing with the camera suddenly felt like a mere recording process. Some photos were not bad, but I somehow lacked the ability to describe the reason why certain things worked and others didn’t. I wanted to follow an overarching concept, but I also wanted for that concept to emerge out of the images, not the other way round. I knew that I would not be able to just completely create something complex and dry in my head and then execute it. In the question about the chicken and the egg, my answer was “many, many, many eggs”. But with the intention of making a bird next.
I decided to make objects. I had to force myself to select just a few photographs out of the many I had taken, and then turn them into tangible things, sealed behind plexi glass, to create a certain resistance and a challenge that would force me to distill the reason why I took pictures, and many. I had to involve others, strangers, turn them into collaborators in the process of making the final product. (Not the image.) This way I was forced to tell the story, or something surrounding the story. Verbalize certain aspects. That seemed like the only way to open a new angle on the work. When not sure about a certain work, one might want to very much change a certain aspect of the process, to find a new angle to think of things.
The images here are the selection. I can feel why I had chosen them. The odd connectedness of moments, the layering of life and remnants of life and things, that’s what I still try to connect to in my images today. Photos and drawings and much of the writing too. The explosion of the ever expanding universe, the life and continous trasformation of everything.
The fishing line was the first image I had decided on. It is such a beautiful and also horrible and destructive object. A sythetic, linear thing, (that will take many many years to deteriorate). And once it is lost, like the one in the photograph, it continues its story. It might strangle a few animals before falling into pieces and then poisoning something, perhaps. And yet, the line looks like a gentle drawing. It is a three dimensional drawing, suspended in a living tree. And is the tree a drawing too?
The lilies were also a diptych, a sequence, the simplest shape of a story. I imagined that the fist and the scond image were like consecutive numbers of someone counting time and life. And just as with numbers, between these two so similar images, if an entire universe. As much as there is an infinite amount of steps between a 1 and a 2, so there is an infinite universe in that tiny moment I took to shift the camera and to refocus and to look at the lily again. An infinite universe. Flower photos are obviosuly very popular among those who do not know what to take pictures of, But in this case the flower works well as an expression of a somehow intelligent feeling temporary something. The actual flowers obviously wilted over a decade ago. But could the plant still be there? Does it still express itself in tiger lilies? The flowers that turned to dust, did they complete their cycle? Is there one? And what about the images? Are they entitled to be? The images here? Or that actual diptych object that exists?
And what about the infinite images between these images? And not just the flowers, but all the images here. I was surfacing out of something and into something. I knew some transformaton had happened. There was an interesction of what I was doing and what had to be done.
New York (August 2014)