Jean-Christian Bourcart

I’m taking a picture of a black picture. There’s nothing to see other than what’s reflected there. In this instance, myself.  The surface is glossy, its texture transforms, disturbs whatever is reflected in it. The excess of light allows me to draw forth an image from the dark page, which normally absorbs everything. This black sheet is like our mind, reflecting everything around it, but all this activity doesn’t interfere with its primordial emptiness.  Images are like thoughts: they seem solid, important, but they have no materiality. All they can do is fade away.