New York City
After several months of reluctance and unfocused attention on an old film camera sitting at a corner of my small room, I have finally taken this little “toy” out of the gray bag, fiddled with it in my clumsy fingers long enough to finally absorb the marvelous beauty of something so ancient and distant to my existence. A film camera? How could I have got used to this bizarre feeling while growing up in a world full of fleeting moments created by digital cameras and smart phones that make the arduous job of capturing beauty seemingly easier than it really is? Why would I nervously look at this strange item and endure the searing insecurity of my photography skill, while I could opt for the easy option of choosing the best one from many photos shown immediately on my digital screen? What creates this unwanted excitement that thrills me, persuading a frugal college student who likes to limit her food expense to fifty dollars a month into finding every reason possible to justify the money spent on rolls of film and developing them?
keeping on looking at the pictures,
scrolling down for more images,
Look at these images oh poor them isn’t that horrible how can one do something like that there’s no moral what if that happened to us aren’t the politicians going to do anything is it still safe to demonstrate they are not even human anymore
and what if I choose not to react in the way that is expected of me? and what if I don’t want to look at these images at all? and what if I refuse to read the papers and to watch the news? and what if I dare to speak the truth that one by looking at these images experiences more secret discomfort and uneasiness than sympathy? and what if I want to bring these images to the world in another way, to invoke other feelings, to leave other impressions?
and which position should I take, that of an artist, or that of a Somebody? Continue reading “On the role of the artist”
The cold weather makes you confused. But the truth is, if you look closely, spring is here.
A little report of how the 22nd March was to those living 60km away from Brussels, for whom the historical day was just another 24 hours added to their everyday life. After one week there are now still much talk about it. But sometimes words can’t say enough and our new image culture provided by the news and digital information sources doesn’t help giving an objective look on the situation as it’s supposed to.
So why not use subjectivity to challenge objectivity?