“I can’t sleep. I hear cars on the wet highway…”
Wherever there is light, this is made possible by darkness.
“I can’t sleep. I hear cars on the wet highway.
Life doesn’t stop when your eyes are closed.
You are next to me. We are lying sideways,
With our legs and our destinies intercrossed…”
(Insomnia by Andrey Kneller)
…….But I have looked too long into human eyes. Reduce me now to ashes — Night, like a black sun.” ― Marina Tsvetaeva
For years I have been interested in knowing the relationship between the individual and his environment, all of a sudden I was greatly surprised by a nocturnal light and from an urban architecture uncontaminated by any human presence.
The intensity which is concealed in silence and in most total absence, has the power to represent symbolically petrified the impossibility of individual experience in our epoch which does not allow any space to the improvisation of events.
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva :
“A window here again
Where they don’t sleep again.
Maybe they thus sit,
Maybe they drink wine.
Or they would not part
Simply the two hands.
There is such a window
In each house, friend.
Window in the night -
Partings’, meetings’ scream!
Maybe — hundred candles,
Maybe — only three.
And my restless mind
Cannot find its peace.
In my very home
Was begotten this.
Pray, friend, for the sleepless home
Behind a window with a flame!”
If everything has been catalogued, if everyone travels the entire world, the narrator for images will find in the boundary between day and night, between being alive and not being seen, possible traces : that of sensing in an original and immobile manner the echo of the events happening somewhere else.
From these reflections I have elaborated the following project : a research of the lone man who explores in the slowness of the night and free from other gazes, the territory in which he lives, to be able to reflect and renew a dialogue with himself and his feelings, if they are still there. There may be admitted of interlocutors and not the marginal inhabitants of the criminal or voluptuary night but the “habitues” of white nights who see in the nocturnal journeys the streets of the city speaking a language petrified and absolutely personal.
In the Silence of the night, in the empty city and in the walls, the human absence recounts our stories.
