TRUE STORIES ARE SAD

Suspended between the feeling of being infinite and the awareness of an inevitable end, our relationship with the concept of happiness remains unresolved.

Making photographs is a practice that has made me increasingly aware of finitude, and I believe that this same awareness led me to take photographs in the first place, in a self-sustaining cycle. I don’t know which came first.

Photography is a kind of defensive mechanism humanity uses against the passage of time; in its attempt to resolve this struggle, it leaves behind a trace of itself.

A wound that makes us bleed because we are alive, but that—unlike wounds on the skin—will remain visible even after our death.

As Roland Barthes writes, every photograph carries within it its “that-has-been,” the irreducible proof of an existence already destined to disappear.

Photography has an intrinsic violence that makes it impossible to ignore the evanescence of what exists.

The feeling photographs provoke is unique to the human species.

True stories are sad—why? Because they end, and their memory becomes the deepest wound.