Last night I was in the New City with שָׂרָה, and I tried taking a picture of our Sword of Damocles with the scratched camera of my phone. The scratches coupled with the twilight gleam to print a pattern on the picture.
An everchanging, mercurial pattern: the abrasions and the grooves have their own topography, and in its hike, light picks each time a different hütte to rest.
Light is lost in this labyrinth, and in its furious attempt to disentangle itself it is abraded, hurt, leaving a trail of iridescent blood. Because it is alive; for remembrance, for spite.
Light dances in cracks and imperfections, and yet, who takes a picture with a broken lens? Marching, like a mindless soldier, light ends up depicting nothing more than our eyes can, or wish to, see.
Odin will trade once again its eye to know, to soar above the common.
Rituals or sacrifices are always needed to ascend and see beyond.
With a porous volcanic stone, I’ll sacrifice the lens to the local Gods of the underworld, and then drink light from the cups of crests and glens they catastrophically created.
Fotografare attraverso le anomalie, i limiti, le deformità. Attraverso i graffi, fotograffiare.
Letters to myself: a diary 