Pablo López

In the place where I write, there are several images that make me reflect on my bond with photography. One of them shows a mound of earth, its outline resembling a mountain range darkened by clouds. Is it a mountain, or simply a pyramid of sand? Close by, I’ve placed a small branch from a forest in India: it still holds each of its leaves, now tinged with yellow. In Delhi, I photographed trees along the roadside, trees by rivers, and behind walls. The images speak to one another, and my eyes move from one to the next, tracing similarities. Through these elements, the landscape has taught me its language—one made of shimmering shadows and stones. My work is to find the right distance, listening closely, because only attention will make me pause when the murmur that precedes an image begins. It is out in the field—in the midst of the work—where fatigue becomes part of the experience, and the feeling prevails that nothing more will happen. Only the commitment to that emptiness matters, to this earthly dedication we have embraced. Some photographs, I think, keep alive the mystery of the visible. Perhaps they emerged from an elemental love for surfaces, for the quiet way the world settles. I’d like to trace that ancient mystery, and under the pretext of documentation, wander through an undefined terrain, shaped by form and silence.