吸い込むように、眼差し
trace his scent
私は普段、気の置けない人たちや、誰かの痕跡を撮影しています。
人物そのものにも惹かれますが、それ以上に関心があるのは、肌の輪郭を越えた「領域」や「境界」、つまりその人を取り巻く気配のようなものです。たとえば、脱ぎ捨てられた衣服、飲み残しのコップ、ベッドに残された皺──人が写っていなくても、その存在を思い出させるような事物に、私は自然とカメラを向けてきました。
なぜそうしたものに引かれるのか、自分でもうまく言葉にできません。けれど、そうして撮り集めた写真には、私と被写体のあいだにある距離や関係性が、仄かに、しかし確かに立ち現れている気がします。言葉でも身振りでも届かない何かがそこにあり、それが私と世界とのつながりを編み直す手がかりになる。だから、私は写真を撮るのかもしれません。
フィルムを暗室に持ち帰り、薬品の中で像が浮かび上がってくる時間。 その過程で、被写体へのどうしようもない欲望が、自分の中から否応なく立ち現れてくる瞬間があります。だから私にとって、写真とはイメージを残すこと以上に、撮影や現像、そして被写体との日常的な関わりそのものを含んだ行為です。
こうして写真をつくることは、自己と他者との関係性や、思いがけず表れる欲望のありかを見つめ直すことでもあります。 もしかすると、写真によって見つめられているのは、他者ではなく、撮影している私自身なのかもしれません。
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I usually photograph people I feel close to—or traces of someone who may no longer be there.
While I am drawn to the person themselves, what captivates me even more are the "boundaries" and "territories" that lie beyond the surface of the skin: the intangible presence that surrounds someone. Things like a piece of clothing left behind, a half-finished drink, or the creases left in a bed sheet—objects that, even without the person present, quietly evoke their memory. I find myself naturally turning my camera toward these kinds of things.
While I am drawn to the person themselves, what captivates me even more are the "boundaries" and "territories" that lie beyond the surface of the skin: the intangible presence that surrounds someone. Things like a piece of clothing left behind, a half-finished drink, or the creases left in a bed sheet—objects that, even without the person present, quietly evoke their memory. I find myself naturally turning my camera toward these kinds of things.
I’m not entirely sure why I’m drawn to them.
But in the images I’ve gathered, there often emerges—faintly, yet unmistakably—a sense of the distance or relationship between me and the subject. There’s something in those photographs that words or gestures can’t quite convey. And somehow, through them, I feel I’m able to reweave the threads that connect me to the world around me. Perhaps that’s why I take photographs.
But in the images I’ve gathered, there often emerges—faintly, yet unmistakably—a sense of the distance or relationship between me and the subject. There’s something in those photographs that words or gestures can’t quite convey. And somehow, through them, I feel I’m able to reweave the threads that connect me to the world around me. Perhaps that’s why I take photographs.
I bring the film back to the darkroom, and during the development process, as the image slowly comes to life in the chemicals,
I am confronted with a desire for the subject that I hadn’t fully acknowledged—one that rises unavoidably to the surface. For me, photography isn’t just about preserving an image; it’s also about the act of shooting, developing, and spending time with the subject as part of an ongoing, lived experience.
I am confronted with a desire for the subject that I hadn’t fully acknowledged—one that rises unavoidably to the surface. For me, photography isn’t just about preserving an image; it’s also about the act of shooting, developing, and spending time with the subject as part of an ongoing, lived experience.
To create photographs in this way is also to observe the shifting dynamics between self and other, and to face unexpected desires as they emerge.
Perhaps, in the end, the one being observed through the lens is not the subject, but the photographer themself.
Perhaps, in the end, the one being observed through the lens is not the subject, but the photographer themself.