It may happen that I have looked without his knowledge, and this too can not speak, since I decided to take in order to guide the conscience of my confusion. Very often, though (too much for my taste) have been photographed, knowing that I was. However, as soon as I feel I looked at the lens, everything changes: I begin with an attitude of "posing", I instantly Fabbrico another body, I transform myself in advance into an image. This transformation is active: I feel that photography creates or mortify my body at will. Posing in front of the goal (ie: knowing place, if only fleetingly), do not risk that much (at least for the moment). It 'obvious that my life I have been given by the photographer only metaphorically. But this dependence has an imaginary bell'essere (it is first pure imaginary): I live in fear of a subsidiary focuses: image - my picture - is about to be born: how will I be? I dislike the look of an individual or that of a < ovrrei But as what you received is a delicate texture and not a moral gesture, and as the photo, except in the case of the great portrait painters, is a little thin, I do not know how to act in my skin. Decic then "let it flutter" on my lips and a smile in my eyes that I would like to "indefinite", with which, together with the quality of my nature, I'd read in the knowledge that I have enjoyed all the ceremonial photo: I took to social play, rest, I know I'm putting, I want you to know that, but this additional message must not alter in any way (true squaring of the circle) the precious essence of me: just what I am, outside of any efflige. In short, that I would like my picture, mobile, sballotata according to circumstances, times, among thousands of picture changing, always coincided with my "I" (which as you know is deep), but you ought to say is the opposite: they are "I" never coincides with my image, in fact, is the image that is heavy, motionless, stubborn (which is why the company relies on you), and "I" that is light, divided, dispersed, and that as an imp of Descartes, I'm not ever stop, I acted in my burette: ah, if the photographer could at least give me a neutral body, anatomy, a body that did not mean anything! Instead, alas, are condemned by the photo-do well-which he believes to have always an expression: my body never finds its zero degree, no one gives it to her.
[... ]
imaginary, the photo (the one I assume) is that particular moment when, in truth, is neither an object nor a subject, but rather a person who feels to become an object at that moment I live a micro-death experience (in parentheses): I become truly spectrum. The photographer knows, and he himself is afraid (if only for commercial reasons) of this death in which his action is to embalm.
Nothing would be more funny contortions of the photographers to "make" obvious ideas: make me sit in front of my brushes, they bring me out ("out" is alive "inside"), make me pose in front of a ladder - there are behind me children playing - and then noticed a bench and then immediately (that windfall!) make me sit there. It seems that the photographer, terrified, have to work so much so that the photograph is Death. But I, who are already covered, do not fight. I feel that in this bad dream I'll wake even more brutally, in fact, I do not know what society makes of my photos, what you read, but when ever I find on the product of this operation, that I see is I s ono become All-Immaginem ie Death himself, the other - the other - I divest myself make me, with ferocity, an object, I have them in hand to them, placed in a file, ready for all the subtle manipulations: one day I photographed a great photographer, on that picture I thought I read the sadness of a recent hand: for once I returned to photography myself, but some time later found that same picture on the cover of libel, a print artifice had altered the image: I was left with nothing but a face disinteriorizzato, left, and grim as the picture that the authors of the book wanted to give.
After all, what I perceive in the photo that I am done, it is Death: Death is the eidos of that photo. So oddly enough, when they are photographed, the only thing that I hate that I love, I am familiar with is the sound of the camera. For me, the organ of the Photographer's Eye (I terror strikes), but the toe that is related to the shooting lens, creep of metal plates.
Camera Lucida, Roland Barthes .
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