There will remain a detail, or two.

There was this observation: I could not see anymore. I had lost my sight with a visual silence in front of me.
Normally, when I am not photographing, I carry words and pictures within my mind. The pictures are there, I live with them as I wait for the moment to give them a shape, to offer them an existence of their own. Lately, though, the pictures had disappeared. I did not know where they had gone. They left me all alone, miserable in their absence. Suddenly I could not see.

So I spent long months without taking any photograph. I was totally lost, bewildered by the visual emptiness. From time to time, I would blink, you know like, trying to focus. A vain gesture to reassure me, so that I would not feel the growing concern, this overwhelming blindness. As a matter of fact: my visual field remained immutably desert.

Over time I had to admit the inability to capture a picture. I had to embrace my blindness and, by the way, realize that I had absolutely no subject matter- except for the very one that I could not see. I had to react, so I decided to go and face the visual exhaustion.

To confront the trial of watching, I searched for a place that could allow me to operate an inner change. It was a hotel room, because I needed a neutral ground without reminders, no links or mark of my past. I forced myself into silence, behind closed-doors, and I questioned about the loss of sight.

Perhaps the time had come for me to let something new arise. The hope of a new vision, surely, one that unveils, announces and promises. Faced with this questioning, I was overwhelmed by anxiety. I did not know what could come out of this exposure. Despite all that, I went. I did not know what I was headed for, but I kept telling myself that, for sure, there would remain one detail, or two. Bright.