Gil Blank

Fireworks epitomize for me the function of memory: as generic stand-ins for the thing desired in vain, they're universally recognizable. They disappear immediately and leave nothing but smoke and ashes. Reproducing them as a fixed image couldn't be a more plainly fraudulent an undertaking, the recognition of which, perhaps, redeems the process as a separate truth.

Jason complicated things further. Setting up his own photograph of me ahead of time, using artificial light and Polaroid and all the fixin's, he made his own anti-document of the same hyper-event. Naturally, by publishing it here, in yet another repetition-compulsion, he implicates you in the chase as well.