Author: Diana Marin

  • Review: Alex Prager

    Review: Alex Prager

    Fascinated by the mysterious quality of the colour photographs of William Eggleston, a 20 year-old Alex Prager decided to buy a professional camera and dark room equipment in order to express herself creatively through images, in her quest for existential meaning. 18 years later, currently on show at the Photographers’ Gallery in London, the Silver Lake Drive exhibition represents a mid-career examination of her distinctive photographic and filmic work.

    The internationally-acclaimed images of crowds, staged by the artist, portray a sense of emptiness and disconnection underneath the polished façade of active, compact crowds. It can be seen as a subtle commentary on the continuous, superficial interconnectedness that disguises individual alienation: everyone is self-preoccupied and follows their own narrative. There is an intertwining line between the public and the private- groups of people finding themselves in the same space, unaware of or uninterested in the silent stories hidden in the others’ eyes and in their conflicting facial expressions.

    Often shot from above, from voyeuristic angles, Alex Prager’s still photographs always have a cinematic quality: they seem to be frozen film stills, presenting a fragment of a greater narrative; which is the main reason the self-taught artist decided to create short films conveying the ‘before’ and the ‘after’ moments surrounding the photographs. Through the cinematic perfection of her still images, the ordinary situations depicted become compelling: the staged details in deep focus, the strange lighting, the highly stylised and saturated aesthetic, all render the reality of her world in a glamourous and glossy way. However, despite the hyper-real and sometimes eerily perfect nature of the pictures, the essence of this world lies in the portrayal of a disturbing emotion, hence there is always a sense of authenticity beyond the artificial fictive layer.

    The focus on emotion has been acknowledged by the artist and made particularly obvious in her short film, Despair. This early piece adopts characteristics of her general cinematic sources of inspiration, including Hollywood melodrama, silent movies, film noir, art house cinema, as well as Hitchcock and Lynch. The atmosphere dictating her work is ominous, as if tragedy always lurks around the corner – an idea reinforced by the recurrent theme of the vanishing woman, which can also be found in her more recent film shot in Paris, La Grande Sortie.

  • A poem: Face to face

    Face to face:
    eyes locked,
    staring into each other;
    seeing your reflection
    in the dark lake of her iris.
    Hand on hand,
    praying together-
    not like those bible verses preach-
    no, praying to the abyss,
    hoping it won’t swallow you whole;
    understanding at first the irony
    and then the futility
    of your act.
    The abyss has wet black lips,
    kissing you to compensate
    for chewing pieces of your soul
    and spitting them out
    because they were bittersweet.
    Now they are soaked, slippery,
    no longer sticking either in or to the puzzle,
    which is why you don’t make sense
    except in the silver,
    face to face,
    where your soul is pure, whole,
    and wholly unleashed.

  • A poem: Unfiltered

    Clinical,
    surreal emptiness.
    Chocolate-scented wood.
    Smell of new and
    non-alcoholic intoxication.
    Life as art for art’s sake.

    Neon light flickers as you blink
    infected by dizziness.

    No longer tone-deaf to the harmonies
    of your own soul,
    you don’t shrink for someone else to grow.

    An invisible corpse in the plastic bag
    winks at you from the corner-
    madness, it grows
    in sanity.

    Lifeless but intense:
    you don’t pray for another,
    you prey for yourself.

     

  • A Poem: Bloody act

    Two bodies wrapped in an embrace
    in a tomb of glitter and frost-
    the blood lingers while they kiss,
    then it pours gently down the legs
    of the cradle surrounded by mist.

    The lake of tears reflects the moon of sorrow-
    trembling, fluid, unpredictable;
    their red eyes locked, unblinking,
    while eternity replaces the morrow.

  • A poem: Echoes

    A silhouette merging with the unknown-
    all that is left is your breath in the cold air
    as you exhale in slow motion.
    I speak in shadows,
    you respond with specters of light,
    haunting every word-
    making sense of it all;
    I choose to live in the now,
    but if you whisper in my ear
    I will take decades to figure out
    why you chose to disappear
    that day
    when I ran down the hallway-
    gargoyles staring from above-
    for a second I thought I could hear
    another set of footsteps
    under a different weight
    even after I accepted your longing
    for the netherworld.
    The statues were grotesque,
    threatening, demon-like in thunder and lightning,
    and still, I hoped that hallway would never end
    just so I could hear the sounds again and again
    and convince myself they weren’t merely
    echoes of my footsteps into the unknown.

  • A poem: Afterlife

    I taste the blood of dehydrated lips,
    admire the inadequately plucked eyebrows
    above vapid black circles surrounded by
    red on translucent white.
    Dark hair, itchy like rope
    against my neck,
    frozen hands trembling,
    features particularly thin:
    I forgot how to live,
    yet I laugh at my own sin.

  • Train of thought

    You said to yourself that it was too cold and that was why you could barely function. It was either that, or the weeks-long stagnation of the spirit.

    One day you will no longer think of your own passing, or that of those closest to you, no longer delving in scenarios of unhappiness out of masochistic urges, or in abyssal streams of consciousness.

    The city, oh, the city. Sometimes you are the city, sometimes the city is in you, sometimes the city does not exist, or is something so detached from who you are, even as you pass right through its heart. The city in daylight and the city at night – such peculiar dualism to which your mindset adjusts, and which appeals to different beings within you, with different dreams and different nightmares.

    You need success and fulfilment in order to open up. Is it right? It might be ingrained – inherited or caused by nurture. Unfolding at your most vulnerable seems impractical anyway, what a silly thing to do. Put up walls and let flowers climb them.

    I ate everything I had in the house -red and purple fruits and chocolate, then I took the first train and stopped at the station where my train of thought decided to let me go. The station was all empty, I smiled to myself, and nature witnessed. There is a journey ahead.

  • Music: Submerged

    Their music submerged my body in cold waters- red, blue, and purple lights piercing into the depths. Their voice embraced me, the melody wrapped me up in a liquid swirl, whilst my mind was surrounded by the haze of the late 90’s when I was a child and the very early 90’s when I was not born yet, but it somehow made sense. The fabric of the universe, the condition of being human and of simply being, were reflected in the icy singing. It could be the soundtrack of a trip to the moon, or a trip into the underworld. Of running and never stopping, following an endless white line on the ground, or running and jumping off a cliff not knowing what is on the other side and whether you will survive the crash. Of brides saying ‘I do’ in glittery white dresses inside Christian churches; of a little girl’s tears on her grandfather’s coffin. That moment extended into infinity, the music encompassed everything, and that is how a thousand experiences enriched my mind in an instant.

  • Aquarium

    On the other side, I see your face distorted among plants and fish; you smile and I’m happy because I know you know how I love rivers, lakes, and the sea from afar, and how I used to take swimming lessons when I was little, yet was never eventually able to swim for long distances as I always ran out of breath. You might also remember that I loved facing gigantic waves during storms, letting myself be lifted up and carried by the motion of the sea. Despite this, we probably talked about how I would not want to live by the sea, rather, I always wanted to find out what it would be like to live up in the mountains for a while, with the people I love, a dog, and a cat, surrounded by the warmth of a fireplace, drinking hot chocolate, watching the snowflakes tracing patterns on small windows. Would it be nicer than getting lost in the chaos of a big city?

  • Shiver

    That tender memory
    of snowdrops,
    dreamy air,
    and spring dew
    made my world shiver this morning
    once again.