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Click
[Click] meditates on the question of the writing of light through philosophical reflections, the occasional anecdote, meanderings into literature, tangential driftings into anything and everything … except photographs themselves: for, as Susan Sontag never lets us forget, « photographs are not much help if the task is to understand. Narratives can make us understand. Photographs do something else: they haunt us ».
For, upon the click of a camera, light is invited through the lens to inscribe an image of the object lying in front of the photographic apparatus. And this phenomenon presents us with a question that continues to haunt all photographs, perhaps even photography itself: is light the material, the instrument, or the creator of the photo? Which is not to say that the one behind the camera bears no responsibility. After all as Alfredo Jaar tries to never let us forget, « you do not take a photograph. You make it ».
Where, [Click] is a journey alongside ideas that flicker, sometimes shine — perhaps even bring on the occasional moment of blindness — that are staged (theoria) in and through conversations with Jean Baudrillard, Hubertus von Amelunxen, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Walter Benjamin, Susan Sontag, Jacques Derrida, Hélène Cixous, Georges Didi-Huberman, Alan Badiou, Avital Ronell, Marcel Proust, Jean Genet, among others.
All whilst accompanied by — always walking with — the luminous illustrations of Whiskey Radish.
In the hope that the text might engender wonder about what light can perhaps write on, maybe even into, us.
For, upon the click of a camera, light is invited through the lens to inscribe an image of the object lying in front of the photographic apparatus. And this phenomenon presents us with a question that continues to haunt all photographs, perhaps even photography itself: is light the material, the instrument, or the creator of the photo? Which is not to say that the one behind the camera bears no responsibility. After all as Alfredo Jaar tries to never let us forget, « you do not take a photograph. You make it ».
Where, [Click] is a journey alongside ideas that flicker, sometimes shine — perhaps even bring on the occasional moment of blindness — that are staged (theoria) in and through conversations with Jean Baudrillard, Hubertus von Amelunxen, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Walter Benjamin, Susan Sontag, Jacques Derrida, Hélène Cixous, Georges Didi-Huberman, Alan Badiou, Avital Ronell, Marcel Proust, Jean Genet, among others.
All whilst accompanied by — always walking with — the luminous illustrations of Whiskey Radish.
In the hope that the text might engender wonder about what light can perhaps write on, maybe even into, us.
Kindle Edition
Published March 19, 2022
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
March 23, 2022
"Your eye sees.
Does what it see come to it, or is it the one seeing who sees. Does what you see arrive upon you who see, or is it you doing the seeing.
So perhaps we should begin anew: your eye sees, but what do you do as it sees?”
Insightful; opening up realisations of thought, sight and knowledge in new light- through an examination of photography.
Does what it see come to it, or is it the one seeing who sees. Does what you see arrive upon you who see, or is it you doing the seeing.
So perhaps we should begin anew: your eye sees, but what do you do as it sees?”
Insightful; opening up realisations of thought, sight and knowledge in new light- through an examination of photography.
March 23, 2022
A short and beautiful read that dwells on the making of photographs, being and art. "All sketching is done in blindness" might be my favourite line from the text. Fernando invites the reader to choose, to drift with the text, to close your eyes, reopen them and question what it is to know.
April 4, 2022
"Perhaps then, what is being written is that of the secret. For, secrets lie not so much in their content but in their form as secret. And, the power of a secret, any secret, lies in its significance rather than in what it signifies" captures Fernando's attempt at musing the meaning (or meaningless) of words, writing, of taking a photograph, of making a secret only as tangible as the words that gestured to it.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews