Try to tell a story about Angola and you'll find yourself struggling against signs of such a
recent war, dignity of survivors, absurd deaths and one single continuous birth. You'll
have to live with an old habit against photography, considered as antipatriotic
propaganda by the former regime.
Children are fantastic, naturally. Some run away from white men, but most of them like
photographs: each picture taken, an ovation. A lot of patience, and more than an hour, is
required in Luanda to make them stand still in a line for a polaroid. Then they'll climb up
your arms to see the image gradually appearing, and that's another picture you'll never be
able to take.
I've tried to photograph Angola and I can't really shake off a strange sensation of
frustration and powerlessness.
But sometimes I think of the things I experienced and shared with people, to those who
finally trusted me, and I can find some rest.
I believe that photography takes life from things that escape, that cannot be translated,
made of another matter; and hope is the name it has in the heart.
