What Love Lays Bare In Me Is

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.

The Winter Photograph Was My Ariadne, Not Because It Would Help Me Discover A Secret Thing (monster Or Treasure), But Because It Would Tell Me What Constituted That Thread Which Drew Me Toward Photography. I Had Understood That Henceforth I Must Interrogate The Evidence Of Photography, Not From The Viewpoint Of Pleasure, But In Relation To What We Romantically Call Love And Death.

Take The Gesture, The Action Of Writing. I Have An Almost Obsessive Relation To Writing Instruments. I Often Switch From One Pen To Another Just For The Pleasure Of It. I Try Out New Ones. I Have Far Too Many Pens - I Don't Know What To Do With All Of Them! And Yet, As Soon As I See A New One, I Start Craving It. I Cannot Keep Myself From Buying Them.

To Make Someone Wait: The Constant Prerogative Of All Power.

Ultimately, Photography Is Subversive, Not When It Frightens, Repels, Or Even Stigmatizes, But When It Is Pensive, When It Thinks.