Whispers reflected

This is a fiction, that has been repeating itself every year for over four centuries in Sicily. I won’t focus on the narration of the event but on what it represents for me. I’m interested in the folds of reality, in which one can find for a few moments a deeper situation than the one represented. Life and feast. Death and grief. Hard things to capture, but you can photograph situations that evoke them. Glances, embraces, tears and songs. A whisper of what I have seen. I need to look at death reflected not to be petrified. Sicily is for me as the mirror for Medusa. This reality is a raw material, a stone block from which I take off all the unnecessary. Time here is not a constant anymore. It stops or flows quickly, according to the speed of our thoughts, and of the feelings aroused inside of us. Finally, I look at my photographs and ask myself if I am looking at the reflection of my fear or simply at my image petrified. My photography lies to the mind to which the eyes are connected, hoping to tell the truth to the heart.