The photograph of hands in black and blue is not mine. It was queued in the printer waiting for a paper to be printed on. By mistake I printed my photograph on top of these hands. They lay in front of me now, the photograph and Duras Les Mains négatives. Pieces of identity and loss of identity. The cries of the lonely man in the cave: you who have a name you who have an identity I love you. The desire photography kills, but before desire can be killed the word needs to be invented. Layers of transparency, a splitting and constructions sprung from the forests of Europe. The text of Duras needs to be written on the walls of the gallery.
1 The blocks in the constructions comes from an old building kit depicting a classic house from Schwarzwald. Over the years pieces disappear and its no longer possible to assemble the house according to the drawing. The large format negatives are not fixed.
2 The plasterboard has been split with a hammer and chisel. The photograph is taken with a lace curtain in the film holder letting the light in but prevents transparency.
3 The photograph on the shelf is two portraits laid on top of each other, a third subject emerges. The subject has never had an encounter, it has no history.