C. in front of the Budapest Parliment building, acting like she owns the place.
Last week I took a part in the photo edition workshops in Warsaw. It was a cool experience and exhausting long hours of making the unjustified and perhaps unjustifiable decisions. A simple photograph can be given hundreds of meanings due to it’s placing.
I think that one of the things which amuse me about the photography is the ability to connect the unrelated events into a story. Maybe story is too big of a word? A sequence, a set. Something happens in one place, something happens in another place, here’s a dead bird, here’s the moon, here’s somebody I know, somebody I don’t know. Unrelated events that become linked together thankfully to a single factor.
That single factor being myself.
Maybe the fact that I spent a meaningful part of my life working in an airplane – which meant being everywhere, constantly thrown from one end of the globe to another, made me feel like I’ve been less and less present and real. In a way it was a life of a ghost – I’d never been anywhere long enough to mark my presence in any more meaningful way, but long enough to observe people and situations. I’d like to think that in some way my presence was a connecting line for all these distant places and situations.
I believe that what I call the “life of a ghost” fed my urge to collect the trophies in the form of photographs. In a way they are the silver proof – I’ve been there and I witness that exact moment. Turning them into something connected and coherent is almost like giving my presence a visual form. Maybe that’s why we say that photography is intimate. Regardless of the content, it always consists of at least the smallest particle of the person who pressed the shutter button.
If you happened to be a human, I think you should watch it
My old town, now a dusty memory.
Sometimes I dream about London and when I wake up I miss it’s colours and smells.
These ones are from my little medium format box I smuggled once into an office.
this one was a task: we went to a grey, muddy park with the colourful foils, supposed to show how we felt in that moment.
I don’t care much about the foils or about the park, these lamps don’t mean much to me either. But they somehow ended up on the pictures saying things about that day, things that grew into a different meaning and different day and reality, these colours became my glasses, my lenses I looked through, confusing, surreal, making that new meaning meaningful, disturbing, mine.
Just some people there and me, Sunday afternoon, doing other things than lying in bed, or on the sofa, I don’t really know.
I swallowed up what was around me and spat it out in some confused colours.