Toxico Cultura

These rolls of film were shot by me in 2001, during a six-month trip around the world. I have kept them in a small carton box for more than seven years. The seven-year mark is no coincidence: it is said that it takes precisely that long for a body to completely regenerate. And so, in fact, not a single cell of the now-me was part of the then-me: nor, hence, part of the original experience. (“J’ est une autre.”)

I never forgot that the films were there in their carton box. But nowadays, hard as I try, I find it difficult to remember even one of the actual photographs I might have taken back then. The images themselves–locked up in the undeveloped film–have purposefully been left to weather, time, chance: a process probably more faithful to what happens with the moments themselves; to the memories locked up in our (sometimes humid, sometimes dusty) brain.

So. To go. To click. To age. To fade. To wait. And wait. And wait, and wait until seven years is finally past: yesterday I dropped off the first four films to be developed.

We shall see.

Or not.

(Maybe a double ghost of an almost remembering, like the dream of an I once was.)