A camera is a device for trapping light. It comes with a lens, a shutter and a number of assumptions.
A photograph is the trace left by a camera.
A photograph is transparent. Unlike a painting, it’s surface has no inherent texture. It appears to be a window on the world. The boundary separating here from there (and now from then) is invisible.
A photograph is an illusion, the performing of a cunning trick. Perfectly camouflaged, it's the ultimate vanishing act. The allure of a photograph lies in it’s artlessness, the easy realism. A photograph doesn't draw attention to itself.
As an activity, photography is so reasonable, so self-assured, it seems churlish to question its orthodoxy. The shooter has an inordinate amount of faith in both weapon and target; the trophy feels inevitable.
Photographing something establishes an implicit power relationship; it is owned.
What a photograph is of is assumed to be what it's about -though no-one believed Cezanne painted apples because he wanted to be a grocer.
I work with the tensions which arise from these assumptions and with a machine which wants to see only surface and now.
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