Photographic investigations, just like their subjects -the people- are never lost. They are always where they are. But very often they found themselves outside of a photographic investigator’s present dimension - but a photographic investigator is an apt dimension crosser. So inevitably they will meet. Just like it happened with this investigation. It was November of 2019 in the planet of Venice, after the great “acqua alta”…
That's what the mysterious note said... She was very reluctant to read it... Intuition, maybe... who knows? I was there, as always investigating looks and reactions. I wasn't there to find out what the content of the note was, that, I knew...
That's what her brand of cigarettes was called. They were triggering her ability to disappear whenever she wanted to. That was her special gift. And that's why she had escaped the attention of other photographic investigators for so long. Not mine of course. The task was simple. Shoot her the moment she disappears and wait to see her reappear… because disappearing is understood, it's the reappearing that puzzled me. The mission was a success, but, then, you will never know if I am telling the truth. And I hope that you will also find it hard to believe that I have stolen some of her cigarettes while she was gone…
Well... that is not the worst thing that can happen to a photographic investigator while walking through the pastel hues of Venice… And it's kinda cool to have Connie Boswell's version in your head…
She drove a bright red 1969 Ford Cortina GT with white leather seats. She wore a bindi between her eyes and she ordered cold coffee. I knew she was a time machine malfunction visitor when I saw her taking out of her purse a bright yellow plastic toy film camera and started taking photos of everyone around. I stole that camera from her, the moment she handed the DJ a vinyl record with the soundtrack of Henry Mancini's Pink Panther asking him to play "Cortina" -if he wouldn't mind. She dissapeared in a flash, the moment Super Mario, the DJ, touched the record. And this was probably the reason why the record hadn't disappear as well. But when I reached for the vintage film camera in my bag, it wasn't there. "Maybe I am not here either", I thought.
November was surprisingly warm, more like the end of April… But people are never satisfied, so it was also surprisingly blue, as if everyone was expecting the cold to blame for their misery and misfortunes… So blue it was… And since November was so disappointing, suddenly, there was a Christmas yearning and everyone was starting to think about nice things they could do for one another… presents, phone calls, invitations, bottles of wine, encouragements, kind words, friendships restored. And all this because nothing bad ever comes from blue…
Sometimes a photographic investigator realises that all their assignments, all their investigations and all their subjects are not "real"… they are just movements, actions, thoughts and characters in a dream. We do we continue to investigate then? I will try to answer this to another post.
This was the password phrase. I was investigating "The woman without a face", a notorious and mysterious ufologist and ancient civilisations specialist who had recently made a groundbreaking discovery… She was hiding in Plain Sight, a coffee shop that everybody could see but only the password would get you in. It was a 4 shots investigation and I can say one thing with certainty: she had beautiful hands.
There is nothing to be said, really. Beauty is like true art: it makes you stop, dissolves your thoughts, makes you look at things like a child looks at things, with eyes wide open, receptive, with no preconceptions, like for the first time. Some of my subjects have that meditative effect on me… they make me see connections between everything that exists… Put the blame on me...
He was there, no doubt about that, but it was obvious to me that he was a projection from a parallel dimension. In my photographic investigations I have come very often across incidents like that-some call them "accidents", but not me. I knew how to recognise the "trespassers". The trick was to look at them with the corner of your eye. Then you could see them standing in both places. Everywhere and nowhere. I shot him. That was my job.
I was killing time between cases, so I decided to take a walk around Acropolis, in Athens. The title is just a Dan Fogelberg song that I was listening inside my head when I was taking these shots… It could very well have been something like "in the shadow of Acropolis", but what can you do? A P.I.'s mind is weird, to say the least…
What would you do if you discovered a box of old polaroids depicting moments, feelings and people of your life? I thought they were stolen… Not stolen from me… Stolen from time.
Having spend endless amazingly lazy summer days reading noir and mystery novels on the beach, I thought the beach should itself be noir, for a change…Thankfully, the few people that were around me that day, didn't notice… And like so many noir novels, that day started softly, warm and breezy and ended tempestuously, abruptly and lonely…
