Roland Barthes says in his A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, that writing does not compensate for anything, does not sublimate anything regarding the author, that it is precisely ‘there where you are not’: such is the beginning of writing. And I wonder if photography does work in an analogous way.

As if the photographs of the past but also of the present time were like traces of a path already travelled, already ‘unveiled’ and where ‘we are no longer’. A place where photography begins too, that is, the memory of who we were and no longer are .

The photographs of a present in Madrid and a past in Korea are nothing but the testimony of successive identities distant from the external borders and placed in a inner map full of gorges, gardens, desires, disappointments and ghosts.