The photograph, a peculiar radiography of reality, is possessed by the agony of truth in relation to the time in which it hovers. Its weapon is the depicted truth of the observer. The photographer-observer senses the hidden essence, perceives the concealed balance, and understands the silent order, when, identifying with the phenomena, penetrates them, with the sole equipment being his faith in his own perception at each specific moment. This is the only existing reality, and from observer, he becomes a creator.
This realization is the beginning of a fascinating adventure, where the photographer, a sculptor of space and time, identifies with his material, the phenomenal world, to adapt it to his own image for him. He is an honest liar. An innocent violator. Someone who was condemned to live closely embraced with reality, serving it faithfully and challenging it perpetually.
The challenge arises from doubt. Everything questions their identity. The words that define them, inventions of our own weakness, beg for underlinings and definitions. "Beautiful flower," we say, because we are afraid to grasp the essence (the beautiful is superfluous). "I love you very much," we say, because we fail to realize the meaning (the very much is superfluous). The photographer must define his own identities of things. Aggressive definitions and underlinings constitute superficial conveniences, while in reality, they remove his own inner vision.
And suddenly, technology imposes a new and unbearable weight on the anxious and struggling observer-creator. The color. Which sharpens the illusion of description, pushing aside the doubts and shadows from the phenomena. And which constitutes the ideal aggressive definition. For technology, however, photography is not the radiography, but the photocopy of the world. And art the imitation of phenomena. The next step is the addition of the third dimension. So that the obstacles, multiplying, make the task of forging the real world unachievable.
The dominant presence of the color photographic image today, as the advocates would argue with undeniably logical arguments, is due to the fact that: Photography speaks of life. Color is a fundamental element in the world. Let's not ignore it. And let it be an additional challenge for our photographic intelligence, as the multiplication of obstacles will enhance the glory of the one who overcomes them. Besides, the domain of painting according to the prevailing view is surrendered to color. Let's emulate it. And if the dress, the blood, the sauce, or the sunset are red, let's show it that way. The result will be immediately dazzling.
However, if we move towards the minority of shadows, we will see that: Perhaps more akin are sculpture and sketching, where space and time respectively dominate. The volumes in sculpture carry a greater aesthetic weight than what they depict. The verisimilitude of photographic accuracy of the lens and that of the three dimensions of sculptural space constitute a sufficient awe to overcome. On their own. In painting, again, color is a palpable lie. Therefore, there, its use is imperative. It constitutes an invaluable tool for transformation. In painting, color does not add. It is the painting itself. On the contrary, sketches are snapshots. Fleeting images.
Photography deals with the world of shadows. The absence of color allows, but also forces, the eye to penetrate where things do not have specific meanings. For the photographic image, the aggressive definitions that color attempts to add are superfluous underlinings. Useless punctuation marks. Veils that the viewer is called to penetrate, to be led to the center. And which usually successfully resist the attempt to violate them, pinning the viewer to the position they have determined.
Photography is a child of the fog. Where volumes emerge suspended. It is a child of the night. Where black describes. It is a child of doubt, where the creator hints and does not guide. The words in poetry mean nothing other than what their place in the verse suggests.
They do not impose content. They imply. The depicted elements of a black-and-white photograph are not depictions of elements of the real world. They are voids. Holes in black or white. Defined by context. They imply photographic values. They become allegories of visual poetry. Time is gray, and space is colorless.
Possibly those who are most authorized to use color are the visual photographers. Those who play the game of photographic-painting through galleries. They confess that time and its shadows do not concern them. They aestheticize objects. They paint with the lens, aiming at the illustration of an ideation or the production of decorative aesthetics.
If, however, you are trying to retrieve your hidden roots, if you squint to see more clearly in the dark, if you rise high to study your space, if you agonize to discern the essence, then color fights you. It armors the world. It creates around things a thin, but resilient, coating. And your role transforms from one who decides to one who undergoes
The viewer has gotten used to color because he has stuck to the surface of reality. He is interested exactly in what is, what he does, and what he sees. And color gives him the illusion of the mirror. He believes he is seeing the truth, while he is seeing nothing but what otherwise surrounds him and has learned to perceive as truth. Whether enlarged, underlined, or degraded, it does not matter. It concerns only the phenomena. The ingenious photographer, however, by penetrating the color can manage to return to it using its falsehood consciously and transform it from an adjective into a noun. Then he will create for us the photographic equivalent of the gold of the images. He will lead us to the abstraction of chromatic values. Blue eyes and the blue sky will become gaze and air. Then color will become invisible.
Plato Rivellis