[Photographer, b. 1933, Buenos Aires, Argentina, lives in New York and Paris.]
After I have photographed the way I like to, I feel as I might if I had been making love all day, marvelous and exhausted and wanting to collapse on the floor in a heap. That’s why I can’t photograph just anybody, and why it’s so hard to photograph people on assignment; it’s like going to bed with someone not of my choosing.
What is a photograph? For me, a fragment of quick-silver, a lucid dream, a scribbled note from the subconscious to be deciphered, perhaps, over years. It is a monologue trying to become a conversation, an offering, an alibi, a salute.
That’s all the difficulty and the challenge and the battle: to look through this mechanical thing, these bits of glass and metal, at someone. And not lose the sense that this “shape” is a human being.