Dazibao - centre de photographies actuelles
Montreal, January 6 to February 5, 2005.
Gallery 44 - centre for Contemporary Photography
Toronto, February 10 to March 10, 2005.
Brochure texts by J. R. Carptenter, traduction: Collette Tougas:
Mathieu Bernard-Reymond -Disparitions
I came and went and came and went and the horizon held its ground, like a recurring dream. I never knew how far I had travelled until after. I doubled back and found faint traces-not of myself, but of where I had been. I came and went and wore away at the scenery. The pathways of each day crisscrossed those of the last. The sky got so big that it couldn't get any bigger, no matter how far back from it I stood. I came to see not what I saw, but what I thought I remembered. The beach became crowded; it emptied and filled up again. A paragraph of birds scrawled grey sentences on the parchment-pale sand. The birds took fright, took flight, rose up en masse, and turned in an arc in the air, on wings of punctuation. And then they alighted again, landing in their own footprints as if nothing had happened. I came and went, came back again and everything had changed. My own footprints were not where I had left them. The tide went out and out. I walked along the water's frayed edge. The horizon kept its distance, squinting, razor thin.
Sze Lin Pang - Coffee, Tea or Me
I am always myself and someone else besides. I walk down the street and watch myself walking. On my way to meet you I wonder: When I get there, what will you see?
I stop at a street corner to wait for a light. A woman passes wearing a coat I almost bought, but didn't. No pockets. I don't know what to do with my hands. I shift my weight. Why did I wear these shoes? The light changes. I'm in a hurry now, for no real reason. My hair falls all over itself, trying a little too hard. I rush past shop windows. My reflection keeps pace. Towering mannequins look down on me with wooden grace.
At the café, I sit in the window and watch myself waiting. I see through my face, my careful outfit, my thin disguise. Nothing on the menu looks good to me. On the phone you said: "Let's meet for coffee." "Sure," I said. Even though you know I only drink tea. I rehearse and revise your entrance a dozen times, mentally adjusting my brightness, contrast, hue and saturation. And then there you are-so perfectly put together I don't see you at first. I quick copy and paste my smile. My reflection in the window does the same.
Sylvia G. Borda - Minimalist Portraits
Luminous bodies move through the sparse infinity of space. We observe, that is our nature. We classify, evaluate and analyze the spectacle of light. Light takes so long. The actual event of our origin eludes us. The visible universe is always out of date. We peer through pinprick peepholes in the night sky, at stars that don't exist anymore. And we wait and wait for light to come our way from stars too young yet for us to see. Light changes as it travels. It bends in gravity and suffers from fatigue. Look at yourself in the mirror. The image of your face is already older than you are; it has lost time. Your face in the mirror is a fossil of light, deformed by its velocity. We are born. We die. In between, we travel through the universe tethered to relativity. Light whips past us at near infinite speed. Near, but not quite. What happens beyond light? Pure energy. What does not move at all? Utter blackness. Absolute zero is light turning in on itself, infinite immobility. Only thought has the capacity to travel instantly. Unbound by speed or time or gravity, our minds race through the dark universe looking for light.
Penelope Umbrico - Mirrors (from Catalogues)
Obsessed with the insides of other people's houses, every time someone new moves onto our street, my mother drags me over.
"Don't touch anything," she tells me before she rings the bell.
Our new neighbour answers the door with a made-for-TV smile, and leads us through room after perfect room. She has some we don't have at our house: an office, pantry, and even a solarium, whatever that is. Now she's in her state-of-the-art kitchen fetching us refreshments. We hear glass on granite, ice, and stainless steal.
We sit on the edge of our seats on a brand new sofa, waiting. My mother shoots me a look: "Don't get any ideas." She chews on her lip, fingers whatever upholstery is within her reach, and scans the room for photographs, personal touches, clues.
The glass coffee table looks dangerous-just waiting for fingerprints. The bookcases are full of magazines. The fireplace is full of flowers. The throw pillows are too clean, too artfully arranged. In every high-gloss surface I search for escape routes. If I could I'd crawl right through the TV screen, out the bay window, up the flue. I want to scuff the baseboards, send crayon trees shooting up the wainscot, re-arrange the bookcase, and pull out all the drawers. But I won't risk it. I'm on my best behaviour. My mother still thinks she can impress our new neighbour.
FRANCAIS
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