What Love Lays Bare In Me Is

Even Hidden In The Most Squalid Parisian Halls, Wrestling Partakes Of The Nature Of The Great Solar Spectacles, Greek Drama And Bullfights: In Both, A Light Without Shadow Generates An Emotion Without Reserve.

The Photographer, Like An Acrobat, Must Defy The Laws Of Probability Or Even Of Possibility; At The Limit, He Must Defy Those Of The Interesting: The Photograph Becomes Surprising When We Do Not Know Why It Has Been Taken.

Le Langage Est Une Peau: Je Frotte Mon Langage Contre L'autre. Language Is A Skin; I Rub My Language Against Another Language.

New York... Is A City Of Geometric Heights, A Petrified Desert Of Grids And Lattices, An Inferno Of Greenish Abstraction Under A Flat Sky, A Real Metropolis From Which Man Is Absent By His Very Accumulation.

It Is As If The Photograph Always Carries Its Referent With Itself, Both Affected By The Same Amorous Or Funereal Immobility, At The Very Heart Of The Moving World: They Are Glued Together, Limb By Limb, Like The Condemned Man And The Corpse In Certain Tortures; Or Even Like Those Pairs Of Fish (sharks, I Think, According To Michelet) Which Navigate In Convoy, As Though United By An Eternal Coitus.