I would think of myself becoming very tiny and climbing
on to one of those traveling particles, and going off to a different
world. A world from where light came.
I
could see that the light arrived from somewhere. There was something
very soothing in looking at the darkened room and viewing the spectacle
of light as it moved constantly to take on new shapes and directions
until it would always end abruptly. The desire to stop this loss of
such magic was what prompted me to want to go where light came from.
At
first I discovered how the sun was the provider of such light but then
one day I became very excited when I realized that the moon would also
bring such gifts of light, from time to time. Light was something that
I could never grasp. Every time I tried to do so it would always elude
my tiny fingers as these attempted to caress the river of light coming
from the window.
As
I unsuccessfully explored ways of becoming smaller in order to ride
the particles of dust towards the world where light came from, I stumbled
upon a photograph that had an image of such light. I looked upon the
picture and discovered that light always remained there, no longer would
it disappear after some time. Now I no longer needed to go where light
came from, after all I had the discovered the secret passage to light:
a photograph.
Last
week as I came into my studio early one morning, I was humbled yet again
by the beauty of light just coming in through the window. This time
the image was made with a digital camera (our cover). Who ever said
that digital photography had nothing to do with light?
Pedro Meyer's photographs are found in the collections of more than 40 major museums throughout the world. He's also authored several books, including Los Cohetes Duraron Todo el Dia; Tempii di America; and Espejo de Espinas. His column appears each month in Camera Works.