poetry

Winter lights

Winter lights

Born investigators do not look for subjects. Born visionaries don’t ask for visions. William Blake could see into the spiritual world, but how would a photographic investigator possibly grasp what he saw? Waking up this smallest day, this longest night, it was William Blake’s “assistance” that I seeked. But alas! It was a bleak poem that I found, “To the winter” it’s called. I guess it’s appropriate for today, the longest night of the world…

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Luana in the garden part I

Luana in the garden part I

It was the day of the summer solstice and it was obvious that she was hiding. But not from me. My assignment was to investigate this beautiful woman who denied her divine nature for an obscure reason. She thought she was just a beautiful model but the way the garden embraced and protected her was more than eloquent to the contrary. it wasn't my job to reveal secret stories and I didn't try to. 

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Fly shadow, fly!

Fly shadow, fly!

I don't know if it was an entrance or an exit. Maybe neither. There was light, so inevitably there were shadows. I remembered an arabic song called  "Fly shadow, fly". Could I be investigating -without knowing it- the ability of a shadow to fly? Well, if it could, it should do it followed by this melody. 

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Poems & Crimes

Poems & Crimes

It was the name of an art bar in Athens. My photographic investigation was surrounded by mystery because, this time, I had to find out for myself who my subjects were. My employer could not disclose that information and although it might seem unusual, I knew it was for safety reasons -my safety. It was one of those times when conceptual projections could not only mislead you, but kill you. So, I entered the bar without expectations and preconceptions, without clinging to thoughts. I was late for the reading of erotic poetry. But I knew instantaneously that my subjects would come to me. I went to the garden. The name of the bar clearly suggested  that after the poetry reading some sort of crime would take place. Without expectations of an Agatha Christie plot -but secretly hoping for it, I must admit- I waited. My connection, Dorian loaded a roll of film in his camera. That was the signal. I got up, approached his table and tripped. Four arms reached out for me. The two belonged to a beautiful male creature, the Dandy. In his vintage diamond cufflinks I could read the word "Poems" in cryptic writing. The other two belonged to a sparkling female creature, the Therapist. In her necklace the word "Crimes" was featuring in the same cryptic manner. I knew then that Poems and Crimes were the names of two families of people whose role though, remained to be discovered. One thing I knew with certainty: I had to shoot them both. Since the beginning of my career as a photographic investigator, it was always clear to me that each investigation could be my last one. My intuition told me that this time the possibilities were greater. I took out my camera and when the luminosity of these magnificent beings shone upon me I recognised it as the inner radiance of my own mind. 

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