There is a melancholy light in Emilia Bergmark-Jiménez's work that makes one want to stay there.
By «there», I don't mean the place that is being photographed, but rather, the space of the photography itself. The picture seems not so much to portray something, but rather, to use it for its own means, as if the image had a goal of its own, quite separate from the object matter, or even the photographer herself.
What is left of the person? What form can a person have if light goes through her and plays with her seeming irrelevance? Maybe, the person becomes distant. Translucent.
Yet there is something about that form that appeals precisely because it is being put so close to forgetting.
This may well be what remains of memory, when what is left to oblivion, is rescued by thickening the nearly empty space, the traces gaining contours that are not what was left behind, but are some ambiguous form we vaguely recognize as ours, as belonging to us, as representing this left-over area that is neither the object we knew, or the eye of the beholder. It is this lovely, strange in-between.
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