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The Photographer A photographer walks a lot.She seeks, follows, explores, runs after, digs.She is never alone, she’s with the gaze. Her owns gaze that, going out of her, rummages, lands on things and the gaze of the world and of the heavens that, crossing hers, wonder inside the camera’s lens.She runs with time, rides light, nails down fleeting moments.Lights that illuminates, shadows that darken, these tempt her, continuously.Her eyes are famished, starving, delighted and appeased.Pictures become her life-story and silently they tell what has to be told.She has a wild life, she lives in the hastening of light.Her eyes are big, deep and transparent, her emotions are like the changing clouds in a windy sky.She sees what is under everybody’s eyes, but she stops to appreciate it. She lives a perpetual ecstasy. Light is like love, when it’s there we have to stop, quit everything and enjoy it.She frames something special inside a shot, letting it at the same time to be in evolution.Has a sudden instinct, animal like for shots, she captures it and saticsfied she’s already cleaning up her mouth and paws.She simply has to wander around and keep her eye alert (and hungry).She simply sees, simply she donates what she sees, the impalpable moment and the emotions therein. She seeks the tracks of light.She allows light inside herself, as the sea, the summits, the sky, the gazes of others, the sweetness of soft wrinkles as well as that of turgid lips. As the moebious circle, the inside is out and the outside is in.In spite of everything, only by opening up and letting inside all that is new she’ll be able to give.She photographs air’s transparency, the thickness of a spider web, the muscles of a wave and the clouds breathing.Her gaze continuously curious. investigates, lingers, kisses.Anna Mosca, Self-portrait, 25th November 2007.Copyrights.