Trying to dig deeper, under and beyond the obvious meaning and to make the girl the center of the photo, I suddenly understood Barthe’s concept around significance.
“What is significance? It is meaning, insofar as it is sensually produced”.
There’s something violent in this photo, a punctum, a word pulling images out of our minds and before our eyes. An image that is not the girl, but in the girl, and takes us out of the gallery, out of the exhibition and into bed.

The convenience and facility of digital photography has totally changed the photographer’s sense of commitment, and plagued the media of mere noise and marginalia profusely documented.
The trivia of everything is sucking the essence of life itself, in its most ineffable, ungraspable parts: those that can trigger the relevant questions and move us towards personal and creative expansion.
What made the fields, the rose and the fox special was not their nature of field, rose, and fox but the blossoming love of the Little Prince. It was (it is) a case of intimacy. Lawrence Durrell, in his Alexandria Quartet wrote that one can love a city only because a loved one lives in it. This is so true, and can be extrapolated to every place and moment in the world.
That’s how art acquires transcendence.

If you close your eyes, and look at this photograph, you’ll hear one of David Sylvian’s songs sweetly and sadly eroding my heart, soothing my mind from trouble, doubt and trouble and you’ll be able to touch the skin of the dawn or the sunset.
I will print it for you realize that all this too much, too fast, too many, too soon you are seeking for comfort is preventing you from noticing how close you are to the source of all wonder in its most pure form and simplicity.
My purpose is to make it tangible for you.
You’ll never imagine how committed I am to drag this beauty, all the beauty of the world to your door. Now.
It is baffling, overwhelming, almost impalpable, transient. And it’s yours to embrace. It’s my offering, my votive contribution, my alms fee, the ashes of time at the borders of what makes us one rather than us alone, or you, or me.

After the battles in the winter front, his great grandmother took the clothes of fresh killed corpses to protect her left children from the south-west wind and keep them warm and free from pneumonia. Her husband didn’t come back from the ranks, and two of the kids had already died as a result of hunger and cold. She was determined to keep the rest alive, even if she had to walk between a field of cadavers, and dress the children with six sizes bigger blood stained clothes and leave those poor men naked under the snow fall, and see them turning blue, then completely white and dream of them every single night, and wake up as a dead asleep herself, to gather weeds to throw into the pot. One night she considered going further, and cutting off the flesh of a thigh, ready and willing to accept condemnation for such a profanity. In that moment, the missing husband appeared through the door, rawboned, gaunt, with his sad empty eyes telling horror stories, and that arrival kept her from more battleground incursions.
They cried in silence and only talked about the children’s decease.
Next morning, everyone had a breakfast of chocolate bars he had been saving in his backpack along six months of bare subsistence.
Decades later, in the family house there must be bread and chocolate and new clothes in the wardrobes, and it’s considered unkind and of bad taste to ask about war times.
All the children are happy and obsessively well fed.

He is with her because she is the perfect bonus to the car. The ultimate tuning ornament.
She is with him because the car is the perfect complement to her sculpted body.
There’s no love in their agreement. No need of mutual affection or bounden duty.
He works in his car as an extension of himself, because he can’t repair or embellish a battered childhood.
She works in her body through expensive surgery and personal trainers to heal the lousy self concept of a sexually abused child.
None of them can articulate words to tell the story and break through the pains of memory, so they reinvent identity detail by detail, again and again, in cool and narcissistic company.
Therapy is too long and burdensome.