Rummage through my archive. I stare at photos from the 90’s and 2000’s. And
after that. And before that. Time is meaningless.

Birth. Death. Flowers. Negative flowers. Death flowers. An unconscious passing
by, through the air and the light. Floating.

Soft lamp. Burned lamp. Switched off lamp. On/off. A globe. A life.

Red curtain. Passage. A dream. I’m somewhere in a movie.

Holes. Fresh air in my face.

Fish, sacred fish, red fish, blood of my blood.

A woman. A mother. Double exposure. Skin. Touch. Fugitive love.

I punch some details as if they were annoying me. Some past can be annoying.

Some of the images seem to match, I join them with sellotape.

Search the geometry but the monotomy leads to caos.

I start to fold them as I do with subway tickets and notice how rudely this marks
stand out. The creases become scars. The scars become all there is. I want to get
close to them. I want to photograph them.

The focus dances between sharped detail and soft blur, a smudged field.

The obsessed eye gets closer to new born objects taking them beyond recognition.

An illusion gives birth to another illusion.