note (24.02.20)
Photos on paper are inherently precarious. At any moment, they face the risk of bending, stretching, curling, absorbing, crumpling, tearing, breaking, fluttering, discoloring, wetting, and fading. Once a photograph escapes the sterile, controlled environment of preservation in any way and confronts the world, the illusion of permanence is shattered. As nature's relentless forces degrade the material, fine particles of beige gather on the photograph, eventually causing it to either merge with the surroundings or be lost altogether.
The image evokes an unexpected nostalgia, cloaked in a thick layer of pearls as if it were seen through a sepia-toned filter from a retouching app. These bring to mind ancient papyri stolen from anonymous tombs or infamous medieval forgeries, hinting at the inevitable fate of post-apocalyptic photography. The belief that all of these, after a fleeting existence as organic matter, are destined to be shattered once more or to become the central figures in the "excavation myth of the century"—tiny remnants drifting from the deserts of a once-thriving civilization. This leads to a somber realization that the art we pursue may be futile, akin to the curse of a pearl slipping through one’s fingers and evading capture. Still, I yearn for some semblance of "temporary eternity" (What does this mean? What is this retrograde for?). I grapple with the notion of validating the work as I repeatedly romanticize the act or have my faith be betrayed.
The medieval, anachronistic phrase “Here Be Dragons”* echoes like a prayer carved into a Gothic edifice. It is as though someone is prophesying, “Dragons must dwell here,” or wistfully hoping, “May dragons be found here.” The phrase “Maybe there might be a dragon here” carries a melancholy sense of inevitable disappointment. Open-ended scenarios leave us mulling over possibilities that never come to pass or inventing false memories of something that never existed. The title, reminiscent of a theme park Dark Ride** attraction, races toward a light at the end of the tunnel that remains perpetually out of reach. I find myself on a shaky belief machine, convinced that art is fundamentally a matter of exhaustion.
(translated by Malpigg)