Final Act

Amid the daily flood of countless images, this picture makes us pause. A photograph that reveals photography itself with its inherent possibilities and features. Contrary to its appearance, it speaks subtly, with an arrangement of multiple visual layers; layer upon layer, frame within frame.

The photograph doesn’t let us go; it feels as if we have been caught in the mechanism of the camera, and our viewing of this scene owes to that black curtain that has been drawn aside, allowing a moment of light from the scene behind to settle on the sensitive surface of the film — or as if we are guests in a theater watching a curtain rise on a performance: a show of the eternal dream on another sensitive screen. The women, veiled and reserved, have entrusted themselves to the alien gaze of the camera but maintain their psychological distance from it. Unknowingly, they know the photograph triumphs over absence and seeks to capture the constructed identity they desire — examples of which hang on the doors and walls of the scene. Thus, they endure the heavy, piercing gaze of the camera and wait patiently until the moment of the shooting. Two young men behind that white curtain, however, are eager and curious, peeking at the second camera. They are the only performers in this scene who, wearing half masks, lock eyes with us and play their role, both overtly and covertly. Everything else in this frame is entirely fabricated and manipulated: the women, the photographs, the images. And the photographer, whose back is turned to us, is the sole mysterious figure.

Yet the cultural code of the space is familiar and meaningful — signs carrying meanings like the words of a visual text that interpret the women’s will and intention, confirming the “lack of authenticity” in the photograph they take.

The photographer, stationed on stage, adjusts the camera and tripod, and says “ready.” The women consciously ignore the second camera and stare at him. The boys continue to watch us. The photographer clicks the shutter. The curtain falls, and the play ends.