THE GRASS IS BLUER BY THE SEA by Lee Chi Leung

If pictures tell us anything, it only tells the insurmountable distance between the camera and what is photographed. The gaze is always a lack. The world that seduces the gaze is a Trompe-l’œil. The Grass is Bluer by the Sea feigns no stories or humanist connection. The pictures are first and foremost accidental, like remnant visions of somebody who tries to look awry in the near-automatic movements dictated by the capitalistic destruction of places and subjects.  

If we can’t tell a concrete wall from a beach, a flower from a face, or representations from lives that’s because we swoon and fall asunder, as we are being unborn in permanent dispossession, in exorbitant speed. The sad truth is that we are long disembodied by technologies of surveillance and an all-seeing culture that punishes us with mere appearances, the more we see the less we would relate, and everyone is nobody’s anybody. There won’t be a fathomable “we” unless perhaps, in a language yet to come.