The choice of the exposure’s duration rests upon the velocity of the happening, on its “spreading” throughout its time. Yet that is a thing that hinges upon the same thing. The question, 'What is a moment?' is answered uniquely within each photograph, shaped by the subject of the occurrence and its own inherent ‘time’. One may consider the unfolding present, the past, and the future to come, as well as the enduring and lasting element in each, although additional facets can be revealed—and merge into something more whole—when time 'unifies’. The photographs in this series were presented in the exhibition Motion pictures at ZOA House, Tel Aviv; in the exhibition Herenow at the Jerusalem Theatre; and at Colorida Art Gallery in Lisbon, Portugal.
There are moments with a natural and cyclical hue, composed of prolonged or periodical spans of time—situated in the background of everyday life and consciousness, yet at the very center of hope. To reckon them, one needs to adjust: a subtle attunement, its refinement, or its complete dissolution. Otherwise, the essence may be sidelined, and the taste of the self-evident may turn bitter. The Hebrew word for still life, domem, derives from the noun dmama—in silence, without an apparent sound or movement. The photographs in this series were presented in the exhibition Around the Lake at Raanana Park and at the Rappaport Center for Culture and Arts, Haifa.
In the desert. The night sky seems clear and majestic. Stars twinkle in a cool blaze. The sand’s sigh is carried in the wind. At the meridian, rest is a must. The whole signals: how movements become pace. The photographs in this series were taken using various medium-format films. Each film has a designated compensation for long exposures, true for a certain range—long enough to maintain the darkness of the night, yet short enough as to not reveal the daily motion of the stars, or dye the background in a purplish hue. The brighter photographs were taken while an error occurred in the camera (a Pentax 645): a very narrow crack at the side of the film compartment enabled some light to get in. It caused the photograph’s respective side to seem burned and glitter with an aura, amounting to how little light managed to come through.
A man stood at the center of a remote and unfamiliar village. Around him, a crowd of people gathered in a semi-circle, listening to his words. Narrow stone streets led from every direction toward the heart of the village: a sprawling plaza made of natural, uneven stone pavers. As he addressed the crowd, the man paced back and forth, moving from the front of the semi-circle toward the diameter of its ring—toward a stone pedestal that stood there, raised to waist height. To the top of the stone pillar, secured with clay and plaster, a smooth and level stone surface was attached, and beside it rested a stack of parchment papers. Each time, the man drew one of the parchment sheets from the stack, arranged it upon the raised, level surface, took hold of a paintbrush (which lay beside the surface), dipped the tips of its bristles into a small stone inkwell with a slight shaking motion, and began to paint upon the parchment. The painting was a word: a symbol embodied in meaning. When he finished, he advanced toward the crowd, turned the parchment in their direction, as if asking: "What is this?" – "What is this word?" – "What does it mean?"