Landscapes Seen through an Obstacle
For me, to take a photograph is not just a matter of capturing a fleeting moment and transferring it to a permanent support. I don’t “do” photography. I am not a photographer. I like to look at the world and the elements that constitute its essence. The click of the camera, whether it’s fast or slow, lets me question myself and then question myself again.
When I was very young, I “discovered” abstract art. Kandinsky and Malevich made a powerful impression on me and shaped the way I could break a visual whole into small dynamic pieces.
Most of my photos, in fact, are collected in a portfolio labeled abstract. The city and the industrial landscapes are part of my usual wanderings. It is there that I draw my energy--from contact with materials experiencing the wear and tear from human passage, marked by social conflicts, the compromise between rules and dreams. One could call that a map of urban landscapes. But other landscapes, those which numerous authors define as the encounter between sky and earth, fascinate me despite my frustration at trying to photograph them.
For a long time, my photographs of landscapes struck me as “flat,” without definition, as though they were part of a non-existent world. For that reason, I abandoned the idea of trying to photograph nature. That was until the day that an artist friend visited me in Geneva.
Cameras in hand, we walked across fields, climbed hills, and crossed streams in numerous walks. Side-by-side, we photographed sumptuous panoramas. I felt reassured because my view was only a few centimeters separated from his. The results, however, were even more than disappointing. They were painful.
His photos showed the granular quality of life, the vitality of the vegetation, the subtlety of the colors. My photographs had no density, no sense of depth. Who or what was at fault? My camera? No. It was a revelation. What prevented me from capturing that quarter of a second of evanescence?
In 2012, I lost my mother. For her, death was gentle. She died in her sleep at the age of 97. For me, it was such a traumatic rupture that my doctor strongly recommended that I talk with a psychiatrist. As a result, I found an attentive woman who put me on the path of the questions that I had buried in my subconscious. Passionate about art, she was able to speak to me in terms that I could understand since I had a professional background in the arts. She opened the field of my emotions: why did I have this nearly obsessional need to focus on details while my perception of the whole was usually off? She suggested that I approach landscapes in a completely different way. Why not look at them in contrast to an obstacle (as an abstraction) and approach the essential (the panorama) in that manner? A little like an animal on the hunt who shows prudence before chasing its prey.
A day in which the dull grayness of the sky is reflected in a puddle. The branch of a tree extends its vertical form like a raised fist, marking the transition from a winter that was harsh and past to the tender green of a field returning to life. Through the twigs, which are like so many small, open windows, access to the history of the field is there. In the distance, the line of a fence symbolizes the contribution of man. A small road, almost imperceptible behind the fence, probably leads to a nearby hamlet. Everything is peaceful. The grass and the little yellow flowers await the arrival of the cows. My landscape is there, undoubtedly fractured but composed of myriad stories. It tells me of the work of successive generations, the wait for everything to blossom, of silence, the breeze gliding over the branches.
The “virgin” countryside of the fairy tales that were told to us when we were children has been tamed to satisfy our hunger. It has been pacified to manage our fears. It has been manicured to suit our solitary dreams. It has finally been marked by our follies of expansion.
Photos taken with a Canon Rebel in 2012. The last picture was taken in 2015 with an iPhone 6.
