Explode, reconstruct, reincarnate, (reframe)
When does a photograph truly die? As soon as it’s viewed? As if seeing it for the first time exposes it to light (its natural nemesis)? DOA. Dead On Arrival.
Does it die in the camera as soon as it’s made (conjunction of light and time)? Does it die before the camera is even picked up, death occurring once it’s conceived, once it’s been seen by the mind’s eye, once it’s been conceptually formed and imagined? Is it executed to death as if on a guillotine by the camera’s actual shutter blades at ‘the decisive moment’? Is it born once ’taken’, burnt into the film? Or is it born once printed into a positive in a darkroom somewhere? How does it live? In various incarnations, contexts, sequences, forms? Does it (and can it) reincarnate and metamorphose?
Photography transmutes constantly into numerous forms, to be duplicated, multiplied, repeated. Its multifarious manifestations are rendered unique in-situ, its various replications, incarnations, contexts, & sequences make its expression sole, constantly renewable, each new (repetitive) rebirth a new nuance, new energy, new radiation, new emittance, new body, new skeleton, new form. A new gathering of bones, new reassembly of bones, a new transmission. New disclosures. New shadows.
No less or more important than photographing on expired film only to discover nothing has come out, not even traces, just visual static, but bones nonetheless, like ray fish or shark vertebrae, alien and opaquely transparent, ticker tape morse code from other constellations fossilised in cartilage.
You receive in part, because you let it go.
This is the gathering of bones. This is piecing the bones back together again to create an altogether alien skeleton far removed, ‘bones-apart’ from its former self. A deranged forensic archeology inside out & in reverse.
A photograph or frame is exploded. Shrapnel. Dispersion. Fragments. It is held together in what once enveloped X-Rays.
Fused together into this tentative form, this dark noise. These bones apart.
"Parlare di fotografia in sé non mi interessa ma quando il mezzo capita nelle mani giuste tutto cambia e il senso della pratica fotografica rinvigorisce. Olivier crea il suo linguaggio usando un primordiale alfabeto di resti. Ha una lingua affilata, che lascia il segno e si articola nel sogno. Non conosce mediocrità, si alimenta di tensione, genera energia, caos e poi un misterioso ordine. Non teme l’assurdo. La sua traccia è profonda, il suo cuore è generoso, la sua mente frenetica. Non fa elemosine ma regali. Esiste con furore."
"Talking about photography itself per se does not interest me but when the medium falls into the right hands suddenly everything changes and this sense of photographic practice is reinvigorated. Olivier creates his own language using a primordial alphabet of remnants. He has a sharp tongue, which leaves its mark and is articulated in dreams. It knows no mediocrity, it feeds on tension, it generates energy, chaos and then a ‘mysterious order’. He is not afraid of the absurd. His trace is deep, his heart is generous, his mind is frenetic. He does not give alms but gifts. It exists with fury."