homo fantomas

It takes a split of a second to kill a person or more, whether you pull a trigger, cut a throat or blow up a building. Coincidentially, it also takes a split of a second to...shoot a photograph. You probably don't see it, but there is one more reason to consider photography the most dangerous art in the universe. When you shoot, in that split of a second, you kill, not a person, but time itself. The camera thus becomes an instrument of destruction, far more powerful than anything we've ever seen. On the other hand, any sane person will tell you that time doesn't exist. It's a pure fantasy of ours and if this is true, then the question is, what or who the photographer kills. If the camera renders us as ghosts stuck in a matrix and the photographer kills an illusion, then we can safely say the photographer is only beholder of the Image, static Nature in motion, for just a split of a second. He is Homo Fantomas!

h0stile

muie si sacaz///

de ce? pentru ca se poate///

De criza///

Cu ocazia "frigului" excesiv, revin la "faza zilei" (o secunda pozata dintre cele 86399 scurse inutil)

9/29/2008

PRIMROSE///despre baloane albastre///

A primrose, I suppose,
With a prominent nose,
And a portrait of a naughty girl with a hose.
Her eyes, the blue mediterranean with a phosphorous glow.
Her hair, fine oriental silk down over her neck to one side,
Like the curtains in the theatre down across a column
before a gallant presentation.
Her lips, a field of berries,
Fluttering in the summer wind,
Making love to the tune of light, warm heart,
Playng Final Fantasy, was it, on the playstation?
Her fancy, films and their production,
As music, I concur.
I wonder what she reads and what brings muse to her heart?
Perhaps it's T.S. Elliott or Edgar Allan Poe, to start,
And an old dumb joke that a father's daughter would take to heart.
Perhaps she has fallen to the fears and frustrations of modern love,
I think not!
Her celtic bark speaks of a superfluous power
And the feminine strenght one can only find
In flowers of the jungle.
If i am mistaken,
Let my words crumble,
And I will remain,
As always, humble.

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