Images & Text By Konstantinos Zontanos
I feel that words are a poor way to speak about art.
Restrictive.
Inadequate.
Some things exist beyond what language can carry
even when shaped by the most articulate speaker.
We have become prisoners of language.
Bound to it.
“An image is worth a thousand words”
is not a cliché.
It is a warning.
I do not want to describe what I create.
I want free translation to prevail.
I want my work
to generate
questions that may remain unanswered.
And emotions:
unfamiliar,
yet deeply recognizable.
From an early age, photography became inseparable from adventure,
movement,
and transformation.
Not from stillness.
For me, it requires
orange clouds,
fog-drenched light,
etched faces,
endless wandering.
Interiors
and images born indoors
ask the soul
to shrink.
To accept walls
as horizons.
A prison.
I want to revoke my human attributes and venture forth to commune with the cosmos myself.
One life, one timeline can that ever be enough?
The more I see, the more gluttonous I become.
Doesn’t everything look, feel, and smell familiar?
There is a space between us and the world, a distance we may never truly cross. A level of understanding that perhaps only immortality could offer. I chase, I track, I find, and then I create. I have little interest in the frame, in balance, or in what is considered “correct.”
Raw and provocative that is what I am after.
Gut feeling. Instinct.
That is my secret. It is mine and mine alone.
It guides me, and I cannot explain it, I only listen and follow.
Profound knowledge? Understanding?
I am not so sure myself.
Take a walk through my world. I offer you my eyes, because my soul belongs to me and only me.
Immerse yourself. Feel the unease. Allow confusion, anger, disorientation.
It is the same world you and I exist in, and yet it is entirely different.
A world ravaged by time and absence.
A lonely world.
An erased world.
Contentment is something I believe I will never feel.
Maybe a bargain was made the moment I entered this world to be given clarity and understanding, but at the cost of an ever-growing void. A curse that ensures I will never stop chasing.
Like a dog sniffing for forgotten fragments, I collect small pieces and slowly rebuild.
Dissolve into the void.
Let it commune with you.
In this black gulch,
let your lungs flood with shadow,
and your screams be muted by light.
I can’t remember my last full breath.
My lungs are always half empty.
As if they stay that way on purpose.
Uneasy.
Waiting.
Waiting to be filled
by something
I haven’t found yet.
Still, I exhale smoke.
My veins are made of ash.
My brain is dust.
Taking the photograph
is only the inhale.
Necessary.
Incomplete.
The image is not finished
until the exhale.
And what remains after
that
is the work.
You inhale
faint remains.
You exhale
fragments
a world takes shape.
Safety replaces risk.
Cleanliness replaces life.
Control is mistaken
for clarity.
A cell.
All images and text © Konstantinos Zontanos
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we lived – but had no speech, no words
we did meet – and nodded, or cried, or yelled
but did not speak.
We made art, that did speak for itself
but when trying to explain family or friend
what we had seen, we remained speechless.
So what can words tell….
they can tell a lot
but not all
Drager Meurtant