Seeking proof of its own existence in a big city is like approaching its own reflection in a hall of mirrors. Instead of flesh, there is only a smooth, cold image, multiplied ad infinitum but without the slightest tangible thickness, other than that of the absence of its own substance.

The social self is an image, a stooge that exists only through mimicry and the gaze of others. City dwellers are actors, empty shells, reflections of images faded by the acid rain of big cities. Taking photographs of silhouettes is a relentlessly logical process, consubstantial with the real experience of our contemporaries.

Reflections, dim lighting, shadows, contrasts, corridors and escalators are all nooks and crannies in which the essence of a troubled personality can be hidden. Not having your own personality is a collective fact, much more than an intimate one. Intimacy is an illusion, and at the same time our most absolute, insurmountable finitude.

How can we exist in an ontology that defines itself only through the eyes of others, in the collective, but suffers in its flesh only in the most absolute intimacy

Imagine suddenly turning up at a relative’s house, without warning, in their living room, or suddenly bumping into someone you know in the street.

It would take them half a second to recognize you and understand who you are. You’ve undoubtedly already had this experience.

As long as all the elements that connect you to social existence are not intellectually brought together by the person who is looking at you, surprised, you don’t exist.

Photography is capable of freezing silhouettes in order to prove their existence. To make them present, palpable. Photography is capable of making a simple observation: if you frame well, in the right light, you can see proof of an existence that transcends all social or collective considerations. An urban existence in chiaroscuro, into a Dark City in perpetual reconfiguration, but with no way out.