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immobilizes and is registred then in the sign of death, in the suspension
of time, in the refusal of time passing as a pure sequence of instant without
fidelity and without memory.
Compared with time, photography is pure rebellion. It's a despairing attempt to retain for ever fragments of sense that time devours heedless of what life grinds, in the attempt to find something over there, in that temporal indifference that swallows everything.
Time wins in this struggle, but photography founds its inner objection, noble deed of the hero who says no to death and oblivion which, after death, is the definitive way of dying.
As a despairing survival act, photography grasps life for an instant and trifles with it by means of its shade, first as a background of a face, then as its semblance, pale survival, recollection, where memory fights its last battles, so that the world's meaninglessness doesn't efface all the attempts to make a sense that faces bear engraved like traces that refuse to be sponged out.
Game of memory and oblivion, photography fights with the stressing of time and the attempt to immortalize the instant, while the metaphysical echo of being and non-being, of time and eternity reduces its sound to silence and in a moment, when it creates an image, it says that the whole life of man is nothing but a meaningless fragment that rebels against its own meaninglessness.
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