October is feeling like a bit of summer here in the outer banks. Warm sunny days and cool starry nights. Fire going and the doors wide open. The best. Everybody is on the beach on bikes on the jogging path and on the big dune. New York last weekend with my book publishing class was so damned terrific and so is the quiet life now. Seems to me the intensity of city life and the serenity of beach life both travel at the speed of life light. Photos can’t stop time yet that’s always my motive. Making pictures can at least put you in the moment deeper than many methods of transcendental meditation. I can totally go to a new place when shooting sometimes if I’m in the right mood. It’s easy. Try too hard and it won’t work. The trick is to bust ass while relaxing. Photo tip #18 #nagshead#jockeysridgestatepark]]>
I publish Instagrams from a wide variety of locations worldwide. Yet if you roll through my feed you will see a high percentage of photos from either my rooftop in Brooklyn or my front porch in the outer banks. Basically I’m a homebody. I rarely “go out”. 90% of my socializing happens at home. My book publishing workshop just finished in New York and was my most intense two day workshop ever. We literally didn’t sleep for two days. Terrific students. Yes we worked hard and yes the party was never over.]]>
You are confusing the circulatory system with this maze of meandering, twisted like cells of the brain – wire meshes and tangles, resemble memory – each with a story to hide or to be dissolved, there just behind a gauze suspended between the face and the hanging ceiling, hanging between the faces and walls.
You do not know if they are roots or hair those that sink in water, and in the sky – in the sky from where the water is more than any imagined Africa.
The sky of thick foliage, of dry logs as your crosses and you do not know if they are branches or knots of hair braiding those who see blacks under the smoky clouds. There are more signs on the ground and more signs on the water that on the blackboard, which does not pass the history of your steps, but one of the steps of foreigners on your land.
A whirlpool in the lazy river as you sleep. A run in the tall grass, cutting edges. A jump and a heavy bag on your head, the water reflects other water and the tree grows from your shoulders, soon broken up by life that your father has left the crooked stick.
This is a story.
As every story it’s made by moments, instants, people, places.
Different but indissolubly tied together by invisible and indivisible light threads.
It’s not a tale of Africa but it’s a story of men, or of a single man.
It’s the tale of a centuries-old tree with its roots – the wrinkled and strong arms of an old lady- searching for life in the depths of the river.
It’s the story of a woman who stretches the same roots to the sky as if to contrast a law of nature.
In Africa there’s nothing that doesn’t come into being from the earth and nothing that’s not raised towards the sky that dominates everything.
It’s the tale of a river that flows for thousands of years in a land that’s fighting for his identity for a thousands of years.
It’s the same river that carries along life and death, the end and the beginning.
A river able to nurture, a river able to kill.
It’s the tale of many men leaving in search of something that doesn’t have a name yet.
It’s the tale of a color in which all the colors are alike, the story of an escape towards places so far away, drawn in a map by red soil and where all the paths come together.
It’s the tale of a red soil that stains your feet and goes inside you.
It goes deep into your blood and fires it up.
And it’s useless to wash your body in the river at the end of the day: the red soil has left a mark on everything you have and everything you are.
It’s the tale of a disease without a cure.
It’s the tale of a rain that comes from the silence of a blue sky and with a din fills the buckets of the village.
It’s the tale of many other tales.
It’s the story of those who live and consume that land.
It’s the story of who has being worn out by that land.
And it’s also the tale of a ‘mondele’, a white man.
A tale of the moment in which he asked to himself: “What if I was born here?”
And then he understood the only possible answer: “I’m Africa”
Italian photographer Gabriele Orlini is enamored with visual storytelling from a humanistic perspective, including depicting its contradictions and “struggles of love with the world”.
A professional freelance photographer, Gabriele prefers to combine documentary and art photography focusing on social, anthropological and humanitarian issues, while working mostly on assignments for international NGOs.
Gabriele’s work in Cameroon, Democratic Republic of Congo,Tanzania, Mozambique, Angola, India, Argentina, Venezuela and the Occupied Palestinian Territories has been recognized, published and exhibited both nationally and internationally.
In 2011, he received the prestigious Author of the Year FVG – FIAF award in Italy.
After traveling worldwide, Gabriele began a personal project inspired by argentinian author Jorge Luis Borges’ poems in the Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Since, he has been documenting monumental cemeteries around the world.
Gabriele is available for commissions and assignments worldwide.
Hurricane Joaquin rolls towards New York with winds of 130 mph and rated as a Cat 3. Great. My book publishing class starts tomorrow so it’s gonna turn into a hurricane party I can tell. Teju Cole, Rob Clark and Michael Christopher Brown will be showing my students work along with BurnBooks producer Diego Orlando. Dasha Kozyulka shown here this afternoon on my rooftop was a major character in my upcoming BeachGames book. So it’s gonna be books, movies, popcorn and beer. Oh yes Mark Lubell Director of ICP who I interviewed this morning for BurnMagazine will also be a special guest. Nothing better than riding out a storm with your friends. #hurricane #rain #wind]]>