A metaphorical form of the silent end without tears, without grief, without a voice..
The condition where biological organisms start to rot and spoil and their elements change. By extension the same condition for every non-biological organism.
The circle of life
The circle of relationships
Who are all these people who lived in here?
What is each an every one’s personal story?
Where they couples, peculiar people, lonely people?
Memory and oblivion live in every room. Some deeper need, maybe insulting and rude makes you want to imprison the former life of all those who passed through and lived in here. Every object, every changing shadow and ray of light has something to tell about the lives of these people. You know where each of them read their newspaper and how they drank their coffee. Where each put their hat, which book she liked, what drink they liked. In which room their grandchildren played…
“Kathe spiti kryvei ligh agaph kai siopi” (Odos oneiron, lyrics- music Manos Xatzidakis)
Vine plants closing the entrance. Stones have fallen..
-Don’t go any further.
-What’s to be feared of?
You go up the stairs even if the the slightest suspicion of fear works like a reaction to every decision you make, none the less, when it comes to photography.
You enter like a thief. Like an uninvited visitor. Like a foreign intruder. In other’s people’s houses, in old hotels, in abandoned factories. Every step you make is a conclusive decision. Nobody lives in here, yet, you feel as if you are annoying.
The floor screeches, the neighbor looks at you suspiciously through the window, you feel sweat on your forehead, your shirt sticks on your sweaty back. A soft breeze freezes the sweat on your neck. Your back hurts from the weight of your backpack. You wander, register visually, looking for the paradox, for the new trying to come through the old.
By collecting pictures, you collect the world
Susan Sontag
There aren’t any old stories in here, only untold stories. I collect other people lives. I collect pictures.
