Crying to love me that she thought
Almost me Almost you Almost blue
Alberto Garcia-Alix (León, 1956) left the shutter of your open chamber a few minutes. For him, photography is essentially a way of making poetry, and a camera and desire began in 1976 to start on something that gave meaning to his life. Alberto never granted me this interview. Nor is never asked. Of course, I recommend the first half of his book will die looking (Factory). Write and shoot. Maybe.
"Alberto, thanks for ...?
is the weapon of a crime. Hard to believe, but it is, terrible, frightening, absurd, irrational. No exaggeration. It is a weapon of extreme evil and refined, which suddenly does not kill ... but kill.
Does the photograph, the picture?
I'm sure. Hurts where it hurts. They mercilessly beat and how he hits. With what rage. How treacherous, with true desire ... do not say!
exaggerate. seek a similarity, and compare their shots in a credible way with something, say they are ... and stab wounds. Yes, stabbed in procession, one after another without rest, because sooner or later always arrive and, although not visible, they always leave deep wounds. There are now many, too. The oldest still bleed. The recent, is not that painful, no. Torture. Destroyed. Gouging. And coming, sure to come, I fear that eventually killed. Do not talk the talk, not growth. I have strong reasons to admit that the picture is the weapon of a crime. You
accomplice then.
Yes, I am the accomplice ... and also its victim. Yes, I, who, with blow after blow, he feared being killed, destroyed, annihilated, and even knowing callus. And last but not least, helped up.
're not alone.
Am I asking too much to myself or asked too much to photograph? I have no answer. What it was true is that in the photograph was placed my faith, my future, my self-esteem. I become my own world.
a little squeamish.
Yes, it seems that crest. It is not. I assure you it is very serious, or maybe not so serious, but rather, in any case, snapped inside me. I hated myself and as long as injuries go, even thought of hanging habits, sending the ass to take my passion and wanted to work. But leave, even willingly, and it was not possible. I was hooked, addicted, trapped. Do not think that is easy to be a drug addict, wanting more and more, knowing the harm and injury to come until you reach the final, which might retire my cameras.
palliative Have not found?
found answers, some with traps, never mind. They serve to keep fighting. More humble. More vexed. More pain. More wise and proud. And, sorry to say ... more photographer. Who I was going to tell me a coward, that the hard way and when I learned that everything that my express desire to put an in front of my camera would only be portrayed by the desire to understand myself. At the same coward who was a distant tomorrow to see his grandmother and made the indignity of not doing your sacred code and photographer demanded.
Your grandmother?
best photo, a portrait that never even loved him, he could have done with my grandmother, was within reach of my hand ... and one of her breasts. What a great time. Exceptional. If you do not see it, do not think so. Everything fit. The light, the scenery, it ... And there I was, out of the game, having the certainty that in seconds that image unique and extraordinary gone forever. Would volatilize into nothingness.
You should be fast.
and arm myself with courage. Then, once with the camera in his hands, and would be easy. Would, do less, insurance premium. But the camera, the damn camera, rested, my fault, silent in a chair next to me and even seemed embarrassed to have a companion to a chicken that did nothing but full of fury, shouting make him the photo, make him the photo.
And nothing.
I had not the courage. Neither tried. Neither asked for anything. I closed my eyes just a moment, just, and open and there was no time. The picture is gone. I am a coward, that reality that does not detract one iota is terribly painful. Espeluzna. But still, nothing but pain and sorrow, it gives me an infinite curiosity. Curious to see my soul, I really find out who and guess what I can see. Only this curiosity is enough to strengthen my will to continue and I am also the capacity to suffer.
And smile, perhaps. Together
sweat and strive to turn on the lights when the viewer to see brilliance and magic. Laughter and tricks, skill and traps ... That's the reality. And our reality is governed by strict codes and embodied in the following sentence: "If the trainer is ... eat lions, trapeze artists at the track."
do follow the show!
acknowledge, is a good magician's trick, a quick flip seems to be that no mortal. There are thousands of photos I have taken and believe me, only good that has carrying death or sensuality, failure to live, eternal carnival. For those still clinging to the camera.
Just for them?
All are convinced of the sincerity and tenderness of our love, and not true. It is a lie. The reality is different: I do not want it and nothing is left of this passionate love that I joined it a damn day. I know it's hard to believe, but ... how much I hate her! I detest it. I hate it so much that if I rid my soul condemning it, without any doubt I would. But the devil must be your ally, because I absolutely can not escape and nullify their evil influence, and so tied up and caught me must have been master of my will and my life. How afraid I have to bitch! As virtuous than it first appeared after his glasses and has proved to be a beast that enslaves me all the time and I submit to their unhealthy desires. A fox. Yes, that's what is lewd and depraved hypocrite, that no one knows what destroys me, torturing me, over me with his strength and, moreover, without restraint, promotes and participates in my vices, enjoying it. A cruel monster that the more humble me, the more I drag the crime.
goes around comes around.
Fuck him, she is not free even if you want to be rid of me. Unfortunately for him, the painter's love that I still have very stupid. And if little conviction, I, who has done that much damage, I am the owner of his footsteps, because it's so short-sighted, can only see through my eyes.
're cruel.
Ah, well I enjoy and delight me avenge his tyranny, mercilessly destroying their ambitions! When we went under the dim light of seventy watts sequined dresses on the runway, I know she would be the star, and that does not. Never get it. There is I who am writing, without shaking whip in hand, and my commanding voice forced her to do what I want on my own behalf. According to the function, one day is rabbit in a hat and another where I'm swinging trapeze. Tomorrow is also the tightrope to walk.
Nor are innocent.
You see, I'm never innocent, I need to own, hunt date, to appropriate that something that I feel ... intentionally. It is because of the perversity of the camera. Forces you to look. With the camera, protected and locked in myself, I learned to observe. Decide how and where to look. Moreover, I have developed a frontal view, a look of boxer, and barricaded behind it I become a Cyclops with one eye wistfully. When asked Barcelona La Cicciolina let me take a close, he begged me not to make pictures of the front. He feared that he saw the pain. Just what I wanted. Exhibiting
exhibirte.
photography I have also become an exhibitionist of my privacy. It is inevitable to find a route in my photos autobiographical. There is, but is only visible from the road dust. Dust that sticks to my photographs. Not important.
then? I
photos because I am a storyteller, a storyteller, a wannabe poet who senses, to his dismay, that your photos are the odyssey of a disaster.
you make visible.
It is this awareness that I have the photograph that I see myself as an opportunist. A predator, I eat everything that flies ... my pan!
I remember a. ..
The construction of an image always requires a mandatory stop badly needed, which necessarily leads to the understanding of what we face. Or at least get her. The act of creating a picture goes beyond putting a roll, focus, and press the shutter. It is a way of trying to make a conscious, lucid and sensitive camera, which is a powerful gadget capable of generating a magnetic field where model photographer and always hold a singular pulse.
What about aesthetics?
Deciding where and how I look is my only aesthetic intent. In the end, photography is a whip. Sample unceremoniously your vices and your virtues. The cameras I'm afraid, because I know what can be seen through them. To start, I believe that each of the inhabitants of Earth are ecce homo. Any experience with the vision, creation, leads to bleed.
A superb advertising photography for schools.
often felt like I get to mourn in front of the camera, trying to express, only the eyes, feeling the passage of time, the memory of last night. It scares me to recognize myself in them, not look at them as mere spectators.
What about fiction?
not take a camera for not seeing. You take to stop look and focus, to wonder about what you see, to perceive the invisible presences. I can not invent. I have nothing to tell other than myself. body need to be present pictures of my immediate environment, I can play, what I find before. If no match is nothing. The magic of life is the encounter.
the moment. Yes
is not the result that counts, but the trance, when you live when you are with the camera.
and struggles against oblivion.
never Photography does not collect this, why carry a big load of gloom and doom. Once the shutter of the camera, subject is caught in the picture. It is no longer present, is passed. We are no longer as we are, we are as we were. And if you do not remember how you were, the madness is near.
but now I can not say what damn thing served
have read all that
Playstation. Cristina Peri Rossi.
Some words that we said
back and stand by our side as if to convince
they arrived somewhere else Falling
empty vacuum as a sparrow that falls to die
and suddenly feel like going keep flying
vertical Poetry. Roberto Juarroz.
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