Who Speaks Is Not Who Writes, And

A Picture Is Never Anything But Its Own Plural Description.

As Spectator I Wanted To Explore Photography Not As A Question (a Theme) But As A Wound.

For Me The Noise Of Time Is Not Sad: I Love Bells, Clocks, Watches — And I Recall That At First Photographic Implements Were Related To Techniques Of Cabinetmaking And The Machinery Of Precision: Cameras, In Short, Were Clocks For Seeing, And Perhaps In Me Someone Very Old Still Hears In The Photographic Mechanism The Living Sound Of The Wood.

He Who Reads A Story Only Once Is Condemned To Read The Same Story His Whole Life.

I Make The Other’s Absence Responsible For My Worldliness.