Isn’t what prevents man from being God the eternal mania to imitate life?

The truth of art is entangled in imitation, with its laws and limitations. I prefer the poet – for the poet creates. The photographer, similarly to the poet, yet not devoid of copying, is a wonderer. The photographer is an explorer of the aspects that our retina never registers yet, which every day inflict such cruel denials on the idolaters of known visions. In the past, I have tried to capture the dawn, the fleetingness of twilight, or the slowness of our ocular vision (that takes so much away from the senses). As a result, I have been left silently enraptured. Imagery are the poetics of my world. I combine images with language, for it is language and words, per se, that bind the poetics together into a filament of thought. Practice and theory go hand in hand for me. Language manifests itself in forms of words and medium, although not devoid of metamorphosing into shape or line. Language is abstract, it is malleable. Juxtaposed with the funeral immobility at the heart of a moving world – the photographic.

Photography commits us to silence, just like philosophy yet this incommunicable matter only underlines the blood-stained urge to communicate. Art and philosophy are united by their pursuit of truth. Truth is always a contradiction. This is mirrored in philosophy as much as it is in the formation of an image. My practice is psychotherapeutic – it is the world versus myself, bottled, giggling in my jar. My work is about binaries in opposition – absence and presence, heaviness and lightness, life and death. Fragmentation in my work points to a bigger whole, a whole that does not exist. If in psychoanalysis desire is lack, and if the body of desires is an image – then being of an image is continuously generated, created anew, like the angels of Talmud who sing their praises and immediately sink into nothingness. It is the fleetingness of life that I relentlessly seek to capture.

There is nothing more foreign to Greek Gods than pain, hence nothing they ache more deeply to see. Yet what is foreign to us humans? In a world built predominantly on amoral values, a world whose hands are deep in blood – the answer is in the slit. The photograph is always more than an image, it is the chasm, the sublime breach between the sensible and the intelligible, between memento mori and hope. Death in my work is transcendence. Stone is immortality that symbolizes the jouissance once lost to never be regained again. Yet one runs after it, every time. There is no cure for the figurative contamination, no emulsion that will take out the indelible stain of visual language and thought from consciousness. In a form of liberation, I picked up a film camera at the age of 14, to make sense of this world, composing the poetics of love. Love is what medieval poets called the chasm – what happens in between is a personal exploration of mine.