Making a shot of a nude body means invading an intimacy, overwhelming it with memories. The presence of the memory transforms us into impassive spectators of a reality that says: “it was”. In an equal way, photograph does the same thing. This mortuary melancholy permeates the grey mechanism with the echoes of the five senses lost. The Polaroids are a snapshot of what happened: the photographic biography made up of spaces, objects, which disappear after appearing like lightning in a memory. It remains just a simulation where we recognize ourselves as an image of images. As light touches and divides compositions, so too matter unites two instants of time; the present of those who touch and the distance
