A window is always a marker of double-presence: the inside and the outside coexist in the same visual space. A chance image outside the window — a surreal (upon the real) vignette: the silhouette of a man hanging in mid-air like an acrobat in the wrong element – triggers the epiphany, the sudden revelation of the essence of a thing: how we see what we see is the key to meaning.
A game of light, shadows and screens — the grainy curtain, and the window pane before separates the eye of the artist/observer and reality. The photograph, technically the possibility to write with light, eternizes the fleeting moment. The image appears through the silk printing — a mirror game of the conditions in which it was taken. The subject rhymes with the process of making a print. The lyricism of the picture finds on rice papers its natural element, given that this is the material Japanese mobile screens are made of.
The man suspended outside the window, frozen in space, but not in time, in a sequence of frames that breaks stillness. This sequence is left to hang and move like when photographs become a film. It has volume, like a footprint in the snow. It title — “Dziga” is an overt tribute to one of the greatest directors in cinema history, who helped writing the semiotics of cinematic language.
