




Frank Horvat : I wonder if your eyes are like your mother's.
Mario Giacomelli : I don't really know what my mother's eyes were like. Sometimes I feel there was no difference between us, except that she was dressed as a woman and I as a man. When thinking back, the thing that now seems the most important - and also the most beautiful - is that never, at any time of her life, I found a way of telling her how much I loved her. Maybe because of my bad character, or out of shyness. I never kissed her and probably never even asked how she was. She died a few months ago, and when she was dead I kissed her lips. For me it was a beautiful moment. From then on I started living with her, asking her from time to time if she was alright, if she was pleased with me. But these things are far greater than photography, and I probably shouldn't be speaking about them.
No comments:
Post a Comment