Untitled, Landslide, [2023]

When mechanic devices fail, they do so at displaced times. Landslide reveals –with that greenish tinge that characterises a fading bruise– the light traces of a damaged negative, through the structural design of a Jacquard tapestry, crafted in wool and cotton. It is the winding mechanism in the camera that is responsible for the damage. It did advance the film, but the malfunction can no longer account for time in frames. The film advanced and brittled, getting repeatedly inscribed and exposed –and, with it, so did time. Landscape becomes Landslide; and the emulsion, a sort of scar tissue. A genealogy, in its physicality, takes precedence; it disposes off of history. It isn’t the intricacies of context that markedly overwrite linearity, but the possibility of there being a temporal offset that renders time plural.

Landslide is part of a series I am yet to title; a photographic series of expanded character. One that comprises a slight echo of Of Sunburns and Sunspots, with more of a determined undertone; in it, my sister and I are the sole subjects. A likeness, a chronic illness, a blood condition. The scars we share, the wounds we salt; the light she bears –and which shines for us both. 

(Of Sunburns and Sunspots, is a collection of notebook entries that are rarely just scribbled writings. An intimate photographic reportage that samples in fragments, and thinks of captures as a form of inscribed light-sensitive memory.)