A SELF

 

A photograph will always be a portrait. When the

photographer exposes himself before the “throat of
the things,” there will be either the truth or the abyss.

There is no “more or less” photography. A photograph

(that portrait) can be a shout or the extract of a long

silence. Clovis Ferreira França likes silences. Oblique

corners. Abysmal lights. Lucidity frozen in time. Serene

colors. Blues of the nocturnal sea. Images without traces.

A fine line. Transparencies. Empty places. Solitude (that

fabulous achievement) full of meanings in which the

nonpresence is what transforms the image into a memory:

a key, a stairway, a clothesline with white cloths, a man

with his back turned. It is the minimum. A photography

of waiting. He speaks about himself, all the time, so that

the delivery is always the gaze of the other. Of who sees

him. Of the few who see the empty bed, the empty chair,

the books on the table, the doors that do not close. It is
an all-and-nothing, far beyond. An open book. A verdict.

 

DÍÓGENES MOURA

WRITER AND PHOTOGRAPHY CURATOROR