A Home Without the Laws of Gravity

Much of what I photograph or write holds within it the possibility of being more than it seems: floating houses, swimming birds—everything made of dream—and alongside them, the disappointment that arises from the encounter with reality, when sometimes the magic ends.

I photograph and I write. My artistic practice is bound to experiences, encounters, sensations, and sights; it is tied to the everyday. Most often, what I expect to happen is different from what actually happens, and it changes every day. Yet it is precisely this dynamism that, to me, builds a broader picture of life.

I photograph wherever I am, even at home. I photograph everything, without hierarchy, not trying to see something I wouldn’t see without a camera. Photography and writing are tools for recording and sensing the reality around me. They allow me to create a new reality based on what already exists—a given language, the physical presence of things. It doesn’t matter when I photographed or wrote. It doesn’t matter where—Paris, Be’er Sheva, Tokyo, Jerusalem—it’s all the same.

The physical space and the inner space become a single, two-dimensional landscape. The visual value of the space is more important than its functional value.

For me, text too does not have to remain within its original context. For example, in the winter, I studied Talmud with my younger brother, and we came across a story I loved very much. I decided to add it to the book, among the texts I had written. The story, like the photograph, involves positioning, then submersion, and a kind of redemption in the form of a nearby ship. Everything is only almost. It is not a tragedy, just a thought.