We Know That The War Against Intelligence

How Does Meaning Get Into The Image? Where Does It End? And If It Ends, What Is There Beyond?

To Whom Could I Put This Question (with Any Hope Of An Answer)? Does Being Able To Live Without Someone You Loved Mean You Loved Her Less Than You Thought...?

The Photograph Is An Extended, Loaded Evidence — As If It Caricatured Not The Figure Of What It Represents (quite The Converse) But Its Very Existence ... The Photograph Then Becomes A Bizarre (i)medium(i), A New Form Of Hallucination: False On The Level Of Perception, True On The Level Of Time: A Temporal Hallucination, So To Speak, A Modest (o)shared(i) Hallucination (on The One Hand 'it Is Not There,' On The Other 'but It Has Indeed Been'): A Mad Image, Chafed By Reality.

But I Never Looked Like That!’ - How Do You Know? What Is The ‘you’ You Might Or Might Not Look Like? Where Do You Find It - By Which Morphological Or Expressive Calibration? Where Is Your Authentic Body? You Are The Only One Who Can Never See Yourself Except As An Image; You Never See Your Eyes Unless They Are Dulled By The Gaze They Rest Upon The Mirror Or The Lens (i Am Interested In Seeing My Eyes Only When They Look At You): Even And Especially For Your Own Body, You Are Condemned To The Repertoire Of Its Images.

It Is As If The Photograph Always Carries Its Referent With Itself, Both Affected By The Same Amorous Or Funereal Immobility, At The Very Heart Of The Moving World: They Are Glued Together, Limb By Limb, Like The Condemned Man And The Corpse In Certain Tortures; Or Even Like Those Pairs Of Fish (sharks, I Think, According To Michelet) Which Navigate In Convoy, As Though United By An Eternal Coitus.