". . . In Antonino’s darkroom, strung with films and proofs, Bice
peered from every frame, as thousands of bees peer out from the honeycomb of a hive, but always the same bee: Bice
in every attitude, at every angle, in every guise, Bice
posed or caught unaware, an identity fragmented into a powder of images.
"But what’s this obsession with Bice
? Can’t you photograph anything else?" was the question he heard constantly from his friends, and also from her.
’t just a matter of Bice
," he answered. "It’s a question of method. Whatever person you decide to photograph, or whatever thing, you must go on photographing it always, exclusively, at every hour of the day and night. Photography has a meaning only if it exhausts all possible images."
But he didn
’t say what meant most to him: to catch Bice
in the street when she didn
’t know he was watching her, to keep her in the range of hidden lenses, to photograph her not only without letting himself be seen but without seeing her, to surprise her as she was in the absence of his gaze, of any gaze. Not that he wanted to discover any particular thing; he wasn
’t a jealous man in the usual sense of the word. It was an invisible Bice
that he wanted to possess, a Bice
absolutely alone, a Bice
whose presence presupposed the absence of him and everyone else.
Whether or not it could be defined as jealousy, it was, in any case, a passion difficult to put up with. And soon Bice
Antonino sank into deep depression. He began to keep a diary — a photographic diary, of course. With the camera slung around his neck, shut up in the house, slumped in an armchair, he compulsively snapped pictures as he stared into the void. He was photographing the absence of Bice
He collected the photographs in an album: you could see ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts, an unmade bed, a damp stain on the wall. He got the idea of composing a catalog of everything in the world that resists photography, that is systematically omitted from the visual field not only by camera but also by human beings. On every subject he spent days, using up whole rolls at intervals of hours, so as to follow the changes of light and shadow. One day he became obsessed with a completely empty corner of the room, containing a radiator pipe and nothing else: he was tempted to go on photographing that spot and only that till the end of his days.
The apartment was completely neglected; old newspapers, letters lay crumpled on the floor, and he photographed them. The photographs in the papers were photographed as well, and an indirect bond was established between his lens and that of distant news photographers. To produce those black spots the lenses of other cameras had been aimed at police assaults, charred automobiles, running athletes, ministers, defendants.
Antonino now felt a special pleasure in portraying domestic objects framed by a mosaic of telephotos, violent patches of ink on white sheets. From his immobility he was surprised to find he envied the life of the news photographer, who moves following the movements of crowds, bloodshed, tears, feasts, crime, the conventions of fashion, the falsity of official ceremonies; the news photographer, who documents the extremes of society, the richest and the poorest, the exceptional moments that are nevertheless produced at every moment and in every place.
Does this mean that only the exceptional condition has a meaning? Antonino asked himself. Is the news photographer the true antagonist of the Sunday photographer? Are their worlds mutually exclusive? Or does the one give meaning to the other?
Reflecting like this, he began to tear up the photographs with Bice
or without Bice
that had accumulated during the months of his passion, ripping to pieces the strips of proofs hung on the walls, snipping up the celluloid of the negatives, jabbing the slides, and piling the remains of this methodical destruction on newspapers spread out on the floor.
Perhaps true, total photography, he thought, is a pile of fragments of private images, against the creased background of massacres and coronations. . . . "
* Italo Calvino. 1984. Difficult Loves. Harcourt Brace, pages 220-35. Original Italian publication date 1958.
Labels: Italo Calvino