Mağara albino by Cemil Batur Gökçeer
In between heavy work schedules, we travelled to the countryside for a weekend with friends. One night, around 2 in the morning, I discretely absented myself from the party and headed to the smoker’s joint. Alone outside on the porch, with a view of the alleyway, the gate, the fence, and the quiet perpendicular cobbled street, I went on a night stroll… pulled by the magnetism of the night, pulled by the deserted landscape.
Magara Albino is a mix of a cosmos versus snapshot-imagery, that of a humanless ‘real’. Excavations, explosions, particles, blemishes, a deer caught in headlights. Here and there, the granite of a rock transcends through the night. On my walk, I see the dark’s thousand shades. Eyes shining through obscurity, the blinding flash of a street lamp, dust illuminated by a moon. I enter a cave, touch its rocky surface, feel its humidity. Magara Albino is a night-vision sequence.
The books’ ruffled edges remind me of the cornfields’ horizontal rows. Initially blinded by the dark, I blink empty white pages.
Magara Albino’s body is light, it bends in a smooth curve, exposing its deckled pages – soft on the hand, generously opening each spread so as to embrace the smell of the paper, the nature of the paper, the metallic, straw texture of its cover. I inhale the countryside’s air.
The paper is so light, each spread seems imprinted with the images of its neighbouring pages. Even blank sheets are marked with the deep black of the past and future. And so, the negative space succumbs to the night of the shots, to the depth of the ink. Blackness seeps, from engorging to fragile.
Walking alone, my body is missing. From time to time, split-second recollections of images surface in my mind. Like souvenirs from voyages, they are archetypes of time, a memory, a place in my life. They are Magara Albino’s rectangular, colour images. I gradually begin to see in the dark, and these ghostly relics disappear to the imagery of the village.
Could the book’s paper have been slashed by optical fiber, or is that hair from a grazing creature? I am confounded by the contrast between a blackhole ether, away from the party, or a tranquil material reality, that of the village’s rough edges and sleeping animals.
This text is part of The C.Sawyer project.
The project cultivates a character – C. Sawyer – who interlaces his/her personal analysis of Tipi’s photobooks with his/her unfolding life, thoughts, routine, emotions, relations, etc. Every now and then C. Sawyer writes a chronicle based on a selection of books.