كلمة العدد .. فلاش .. يقدمه نبيل إسماعيل .. مجلة فن التصوير اللبنانية _ ع٢١

number word

In the nineteenth issue, we dedicated pages - Camera Talk » to photojournalists on the occasion of the martyrdom of photographer Adnan Karaki. This is to give importance to what these photographers suffer in the profession of troubles, relying on snapshots expressive of the face of each photographer separately, or for his stance and readiness for what this aspect constitutes of importance in the hearts of
These professionals.
And just yesterday, the press was saddened by the martyrdom of another colleague, the martyr Habib Dia, the photographer of Al-Anwar newspaper, who was among the victims of the helicopter that claimed the lives of the Chief of Staff of the Lebanese Army, Major General Nadim Al-Hakim and his companions.
The martyr Habib Dia lived twenty years of continuous journalistic work, with the company of seven years between us, which we spent in Dar Al-Sayyad. duty.
We condolence ourselves to you, beloved, and we do not have medals or medals to present them to you. If we had the right to decide, we would work to honor you with a speech festival, at least. And we invited the politicians and the press, who have known you throughout your professional life, to attend this ceremony honoring you.

Because we only have this page. We call on the Photographers Syndicate and with the support of the Press Syndicate to extend a helping hand as usual. This is to create an annual award or a professional medal, or a material reward that is given to those who died in the way of their profession, as well as to those who are honored in their press bids.

editor

Flash presented by Nabil Ismail

Photographer rave!

Like autumn leaves, we fall, we descend slowly towards the bottom, we face yellowing, the wind plays with us, we surrender to fate, to the dew, and to the morning humidity.

Deep lethargy possesses the eyes, and the color violet overwhelms everything around us. We feel nostalgic for the earth, embracing the soil, reassured and confident... We enter the world of strangeness and myths, and we wonder about the secret of the state in which you live, the secret of this delirium and scattered speech, and we find no answer except for more delirium and scattered speech!

***

Like birds, we sing around as we please. We possess time, embracing the absolute. We dream like children on a sweet picnic. Who fulfills our dreams, who holds us accountable, and who punishes us?
We are a single class of human beings who do not know for us, kara, other than - kar - photography.. Our first lesson is ambition.. We aspire to fly effortlessly, we wing towards the rain, for this the Absolute One has given us wings, and made our beds over our shoulders. Clouds carry us and throw messages at people.. . Rain that refreshes the soil and everything that creeps on the soil or dwells in the soil.

***

Birds and candles... We know some of these birds, and some of the candles
Candles are extinguished without warning and without making noise.. Some of the birds are flying and others are burning
It's a fancy...
For passion forms and excuses!
The bee embraces the flower, takes its fragrance to make its home from it, the birds embrace the threshing floors, move its grass into a house, and we embrace the morning and the time to feel
With ecstasy, our faces burn, and signs of victory and victory are drawn on our mouths.

***

Like butterflies, we jump without making noise. Who feels the arrival of a butterfly but the wind?
Alone we smashed all the wild flowers And we realized the game of butterflies We brought red to the eye We kept the sun And we didn't stab the moon in one of its evenings
We are devoted to overt and secret meetings
We kept the secrets of the elders
And the secrets of the little ones and the whispers of the bureaus, and it did not announce that we know only the camera and the image as a “carer” for us
Like butterflies, no one feels our arrival, and we do not seek to exploit this game in our journey.

***

We wash ourselves at the crossing gates, we wipe the dust from the lines of contact from the faces of the passers-by, and we ask the thoughts of the destroyed homes, we ask the thoughts of the waiting eyes, the eyes that wait for the long-absent.
The eyes that monitor the horizon dream of the absent
The eyes that monitor, the bundle of bread, at the hands of the absent comer. We do not know the taste of words and situations. We cover the buffer zone and pass - without fear.
We draw on the shattered buildings the boundaries of dreaming and waking and announcing the start of work

***

Alone we run, we descend, we fall, and we must remain silent, not expressing anything other than what we know about photography.
Once upon a time, we like to imitate the delirium of poets and speak in a different way
• But the image returns to dominate all words, so we find that we always converge around the image
The picture is our only concern.
Karna, delirium controlling us.
We are its masters.
We orchestrated it.
But sometimes we are its victims.
We are among her dead!