THE BODY WHICH I DO NOT LIVE IN

DOCUMENTARY

Are we really born when our mother’s flesh opens its cut and let us go? Or maybe it is useless to even cry to be told that we are really born? A body which has not come to light yet is a disunited, dismantled item: so distant from the wholeness that it can be understood only if we pay attention to detail. It is a living creature, but at the same time it is still waiting to be born. Nothing more similar to the latent image of the dark room: the body likewise inhabits the gloomy prison of the belly, and just as similarly it lies upside down within the walls of flesh. Such a body has no country, it is an orphan of all belongings. Its perimeter is traced by the skin and the only possible geography is given by its veins and muscles. The absence of shadows in the photographs allows us to report the images with the cold and lucid violence of a delivery room. Birth – like photography, after all – is a search for light and a body to inhabit.