Pequena Morte

pequena morte is a book about passion, but also about the end, which are, not coincidentally, two faces of
the same event. its images balance precariously in an undefined place, like at the height of an orgasm, when
we find ourselves suspended and, at the same time, confronted with the mourning of pleasure.

how do we handle our pleasures? endless and, to the same extent, elusive.

in that necessarily brief instant, perceptions become confused, blurring the natural boundary between the
physical and the intangible, the sensual and the sensible, animals and inanimate beings. our bodies become
diffuse landscapes, which I trace with my fingers as if I could trace the entire world. immense, and yet finite.
ephemeral, mutable.

on my belly, the stones of a pebble beach leave a mark. it is that simple to make a living body hold on to
something. or someone.

these photographs are fragments of past sensations: they lend me the possibility of being here and there, at
the same time, nowhere. I return to collect them, even knowing that I can no longer capture them.

every return is, after all, also a reunion with death. but if I insist on this farewell, it is because the sun, at its
most beautiful just before it dies, consoles me once again.