I have tried to be as eclectic as I possibly can with my professional life, and so far it's been pretty fun.

Television doomed us to the Family, whose household instrument it has become-what the hearth used to be, flanked by the communal kettle.

I am interested in language because it wounds or seduces me.

How does meaning get into the image? Where does it end? And if it ends, what is there beyond?

For the photograph's immobility is somehow the result of a perverse confusion between two concepts: the Real and the Live: by attesting that the object has been real, the photograph surreptitiously induces belief that it is alive, because of that delusion which makes us attribute to Reality an absolute superior, somehow eternal value; but by shifting this reality to the past ("this-has-been"), the photograph suggests that it is already dead.

In front of the photograph of my mother as a child, I tell myself: she is going to die: I shudder, like winnicott's psychotic patient, over a catastrophe which has already occurred. Whether or not the subject is already dead, every photograph is this catastrophe.

When we look at a photograph of ourselves or of others, we are really looking at the return of the dead.