I started photographing Clementine, subconsciously, in the summer of 2012. Why was I making these images? Why do we make images? A question that one can have a lot of answers to, but one that seems to need none.
"Why did you photograph me so much?" Thus began a conversation in Herve Guibert's Ghost Image, thus began a conversation in my head. In looking back, in holding on, the act of picturemaking is that transitory spell of magic that lies between memory and forgetfulness.
The collection is a recollection, born out of inspirations from here and there. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Daniela Andrade's voice. Leonard Cohen's timbre. Surprisingly enough, and laugh all you want, How I Met Your Mother. And as a friend pointed out recently, The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.
"Let us go, then you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky."
A friend, Raghav Pasricha had come up with another piece of text, while pondering over my thoughts on Clementine. It is as follows...
As Faiz once wrote, the dawn I seek hasn't arrived and the wake is made harder by arms that drag me back to the shadows, voices that call me into the night, and eyes whose depths make the dawn a worthless dream.
I retreat to my Clementine, a fragment of time, that shard of anxiety that pierces the skin and draws pleasure when plucked from the torn skin of reality. Clementine rolls off the cadence of laughter, floats away in the smoke rising from parted lips, gets lost in the tangle of hair that falls languidly into oblivion. Clementine, lives only in my mind, like a magic trick that refuses to be real. She eludes and yet, you can retreat to her, a mirage that appears when hope has left, for it is only hope that's left when hope has left. At once present and at once sought, that is the hardest thing about her. To pin her down would be to eviscerate her.