We continue and present the projects selected by Les Nuits Photographiques 2015 awards, which took place on September 19th. Today is about “Cortex“, directed by the French collective Faux Amis.
Residents sat for 3D photography shoots in a place that held a special memory. The landscape is transformed, coming to pieces as the image is taken. Production as part of the residency in Seine-et-Marne.
Pretty Picture
He appears suspended between life and death in a blue amniotic liquid, in a showcase set against a coarse background, like a foetus in the womb. Frozen, motionless, because only the camera moves, turning around a subject that is absorbed by the surrounding decor.
This is the birth of your death, it is the lacework of your memory, the swollen sponge of your sick brain, the see-through fabric of your punctured heart. Life is streaming, flowing through your tubes, you are drawn by gravity, your cells are bursting, silently, like the bubble wrap that we snap gleefully between our fingers.
This is your fall into the void, into infinity, but you bounce back on the hard substance of an unidentified body part (a kick?) and spring back into the immense universe.
(There are a few blemishes in the pretty picture, in the blue sky and in the lacework of your memories).
You are the lonely vessel moving away at your own gentle pace, further and further away from others, and at the same time, the little bit of flesh on your private piece of earth, your own little corner, and a cherished memory, a patch of earth, a polished stone, rare outbursts, a flicker of light in your dark nights, occasionally light up your dark tunnels. You want me to tell you about my big moment? Oh yes, please take note, I’m not dying completely.
And I attempt to understand the meaning of my presence here, I’m going to look for scraps and shells and pieces of coloured glass, on the shore, left there by the tide, at the mercy of its pretty poisoned gifts, fragments of an answer, sprig after sprig, I build the nest of my beliefs, events handle me roughly and my nest blows away in the wind, events spoil me and console me, and with fear in my heart at the idea that it might be taken away from me, I enjoy this richness for a few short instants, then I polish that memory, I talk about it, transform it, it plays over and over again in my chest, and becomes as shiny as a stone showing up all its details, its colours. It plays my own personal tune, which energises me and helps me recognize others when my planet encounters another, mooring there for a moment or two I hum and strum to this tune, my founding narrative, my myth.
