Each time, photography happens as a (risky) scratch that appears on the immaculate white – a sign that tarnishes the untouchable that is virgin paper, never before exposed, but always waiting for that moment: for a ray of light to kiss it.
The writing that is born reveals a drawing that appears in the middle of the forest, made up of lines that our gaze traverses – lines that emerge from the earth and the snow stiff and lush or enter them fallen, curved and forming drawings that the attention of the gaze fixes, that the movement of the writing hand prolongs. They are physical and enveloping drawings, drawings that stimulate thought and that are also formed through what overflows from thought.
With images I write, with words I imagine: I create images. The one who writes is therefore the one who observes – the one who observes is the one who writes: both the same, crossed by poetry, which guides, which draws, which presents the gesture, repeatedly, without end.