Imperfect images

When I travel, I like to take notes. Notes written or dictated to the cell phone recorder, or still image recordings, which are not exactly photographs, but simple “snapshots”, in the literal sense of the term.
In all cases, it is a question of bringing home pieces of the world, like someone bringing shells from the beach, in a greedy impulse to take possession of my own experience.
They are fragments of chance, rags, loose pieces, incomplete sentences, out-of-focus, off-centered figures, poorly lit, without framing. Lightning flashes from my gaze, from my emotional and imperfect gaze.
The work of memory is to choose, condense, seal, close reality in a mental museum.
I prefer to keep everything open, unexplained. Leave the interpretations halfway through, the adventure unfinished.
I don't photograph to remember later, but to later reflect and write about living material, lava that doesn't cool down, opening up the possibility of an infinite journey.
These notes in photographic form are therefore anti-memories. Its nature is not artistic and its function is strictly personal and pragmatic: to prevent the trip from becoming a memory, keeping it as a permanent source of dreams and utopia.

Paulo Moura

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