In the digital realm it is a different story. Photographs are called pics, they are pixel-skins of a relentlessly more and more detailed dehumanized observation. Reality nearly becoming virtual. One has to believe one’s eyes.
Freud said that the painter is a child playing with it’s excrements. I suppose the painter eats what he sees first. The photographer shoots the moment in the momentum, and frames the reference to what surrounds the suggestion of a complete world.
Photoschmidt ventures beyond that. In the haunting claire obscure of his nightshots he releases what is absent. Industry without action, machines without masters, static silent signs of human activity as if no human ever existed. Obscure vacuum of emotion in the claire of perfect desolation.
A space odyssey into the eye past beauty as duty. “Photoschmidt wasn’t here”. Machines are man-made but don’t need them. Photoschmidt‘s patience and restless perfectionism is exploited well by the night shots coming into existence.
When confronted by them, there is a pleasant way to get lost. |