These photos have, as single and sole protagonist, the void. The absence of the presence. A space apathetic and sterile in feelings. These photos do not give themselves any purpose. They are just a portrait. Are many portraits of the same (not) face. As if it were possible to trace the many different and multiple facets of a physiognomy absence.
Of the very essence of absence.
The portrait of an empty echo.
A silence untraceable.
A dimensionless point in a perpetual oscillation.
Forebodings and unconscious impressions replace the sense perceptions. Which are useless and disastrous, as the reason. Useless as every explanation. How to explain the void.
There is no sadness in these photos. There is no sign of melancholy or languid feeling. There are no false words, there are no tears.
Everything is already ashes. Everything has already been. Everything is already lost.
Just us epicenter of our sterile universe. We, drowned, contemplating the one true fact of life that is not illusory. Our condition of inadequacy, impotence, defeat.