Last months of my father { 30 images } Created 25 Sep 2012
I have photographed my father during his illness because I hadn't done it when I should have.
I have photographed my father because I couldn't look at him without hiding behind the camera, withholding my emotions, postponing them to a private, secret thereafter. I have photographed suffering before, but then I was following my inner fire, holding my camera like a sword, now it had become my shield. His illness put a stop to the countless incomprehensions among us. There was no time for arguments anymore, only time to declare my love. My own children will not know who he was, will not hear his stories, will not drink from the same fountain of life that I drank from. It is like they will never know a part of me, the most important part. I had thought my father was forever, eternal. Even if I hated him. He was like a mirror to me, projecting my accusations, my fears, my hatred, staring at myself with my own eyes. In the summer we used to go visit the grandparents in Puglia, in the land where our blood comes from, their blood, my blood. The roots. Will my children understand who he was? Will I be able to pass them that strength, that character that they already have in their blood? Will they know where that energy comes from? Will they recognize the entity that something has passed from father to son? The blood, the roots.
I have photographed my father because I couldn't look at him without hiding behind the camera, withholding my emotions, postponing them to a private, secret thereafter. I have photographed suffering before, but then I was following my inner fire, holding my camera like a sword, now it had become my shield. His illness put a stop to the countless incomprehensions among us. There was no time for arguments anymore, only time to declare my love. My own children will not know who he was, will not hear his stories, will not drink from the same fountain of life that I drank from. It is like they will never know a part of me, the most important part. I had thought my father was forever, eternal. Even if I hated him. He was like a mirror to me, projecting my accusations, my fears, my hatred, staring at myself with my own eyes. In the summer we used to go visit the grandparents in Puglia, in the land where our blood comes from, their blood, my blood. The roots. Will my children understand who he was? Will I be able to pass them that strength, that character that they already have in their blood? Will they know where that energy comes from? Will they recognize the entity that something has passed from father to son? The blood, the roots.
