From Tales of Light by Eros Perin

The language these pictures express has no grace nor splendour. It’s a blind and deaf language. Words are not evoked. They are not needed. Their presence is sufficient in so far as – physically, ontologically – their existence is their own story. The life we see captured is death of everything they could still be and maybe of everything they could have been. Their existence is a chance event.

Thus, these images live in the realm of the simulacra and are figures of this realm only. They have never had originals of which to be copies and never will they. Nor do they aim at a perfect idea to aspire to. They are images of themselves. They are complete reflections of their missed opportunity to be anything but themselves. They are spectres who never had a physicality unlike the one they display. Their light is the shadow of their death. We really need to glorify this condition of theirs.

If photography is writing with light, light is blinding and the language used to describe it in its essence cannot but be blinding too. So clear that it cannot hint, but must say instead.

These images have no pre-established meaning, nor do they generate meanings and they don’t fit into a network of seductive meanings. Instead they withdraw into the shadows of interpretation or rather that of decipherment. Decipherment is the endless production of comments or tales about it. A never-ending process.

The language of photography is based on the language of light writing and imprinting. Therefore the system deployed is the following: from the imprinted subject to light and then to darkness, up to its disappearance and reappearance as a seen space, or rather as a vision imprinted onto the visible.

In this sense, we need to think that Crisafi’s photographs don’t aim to express the inexpressible; indeed, there is nothing further to express and to bring to light. There is nothing but the simulacrum.

These photographs don’t give meaning to the world, nor do they seek out the meaning of reality. They rather pursue the barest form of language, its emptiness. There is no metaphysical emphasis of the “before”, the reference to an original and the after, the reference to a goal or an idea. They emphasise the strength and necessity to shift the gaze and thought to the “during”, to the transition, to the line that slides through the dots but which never manages to turn into a dot; that “during” which relates and creates relations, but that is never confined to a figure.

Crisafi’s work is a form of threshold poetics: the showcasing of potential worlds and potential gazes. Aesthetic and and not logical potential. Being thresholds, these surfaces are no longer in relation with space alone, only but are aware of space itself: a place of pure imagination, reveries producing meaning. Unconnected to time but dead to time, no longer aware of any time but rather of limitless escape routes from time. If anything, they are the awareness of a time without a time that is given but a time that is made.