Along the mountain road
Somehow it tugs to my heart
A wild violet
-Basho-
There is a murmur of images in the cities. There are people. Stories walking down the streets. You can see them in faces, in gestures.
Those stories are being written again and again. They come across one another without even suspecting that. They are made. They are lost. My gaze even invents them. My gaze. The chaotic lights, the sounds in the city. I want my photos to tell those stories. To name them. I want my images to be an invitation. That is when I stop with my camera. I ask for permission to take a portrait. Some people do not want, but in most cases, contrary to what many might think, many men and women accept gladly. That is where we start a dialogue. Perhaps a short one, or not so short, the portraited person, my camera and me. Or me in my camera. Or I do not know.
A dialogue starts in which my camera is a character we try to forget about. I am interested in that dialogue to be part of the image. To be it skeleton. Sometimes it happens that people want to see their portrait, they ask me to send them it. We keep in contact. Or sometimes we never see each other again. I know their image. That is all I want to know at the very moment I take them the photo. And also, that is why I do not give a title to my individual images. I just have that “here and now” that never exists at all. Like the world. Like cities that change every time somebody sees them. And some other person will see them, and reinvent them. And forget them. [Official Website]
