High beams, brights, are blinding, but they also illuminate the road in the dark hours. Suddenly a hare darts by, a glimpse of a hedgehog or some kind of badger on the bank; sometimes, if lucky, the apparition of an antlered stag in the distance, motionless for an instant under the car’s flash—quickly disappearing off the frame; with less luck, a wild boar, a nocturnal and crepuscular animal, appearing suddenly and erratically charging against the headlights in its dazzlement.
Late at night, driving through the fields, anything is possible. Sightings, crossings, dimension shifts. In the contrast of the cold, artificial glow against the backdrop of the forest running its course, the photo appears, revealing what we didn’t know was already there. In this place, stone houses, straw bales, and iron fences still exist in the same immutable form, a leap back in time.
The fingerprint is the first painting, a primordial index in the journey of thousands of years towards light registry: photography. Going back to the inevitable process of the analogical gesture, the impression of an object is not presented as a testimony to a truer truth, but as a proposition, the drawing of an enigma. The impression of an object engenders an independent version, a new being in the domain of the image, a surprise.
When the surface tension is revealed, a mystery is formed, the void concocts an intrigue: the portal opens, a communicative vessel. Behind the steering wheel, in front of the flash; in front of the door, behind the threshold; strangeness is a place that the brilliance of clarity momentarily captures.
– Sira Pizà