The Nakedness of Life

I don’t know how many hours, days, or months before or after grandmother’s passing, the photographer took these pictures. The small series consists of seven images of a bougainvillea, seemingly captured within minutes. The flash light bares every branch and sharpens every thorn. This nakedness pushes aside the twists and turns of the branches to illuminate and reveal the thread—a thread that grandmother had perhaps once wound around the branches, hoping they would climb higher, hoping leaves and flowers would come to life. But this semi-dry plant, with its dark backdrop, seems to bitterly and harshly say there’s no strength, no life, no energy left. The flash’s light intensifies the struggle between the darkness behind and the invisible, with the nakedness of the branches and the visible; however much we try to look beyond the thorns, it feels as though we remain behind the barrier of branches, going nowhere. It’s as if everything in the image speaks of darkness, dryness, and coldness. Yet, at the same time, through these pictures, the photographer keeps this plant and grandmother’s touch alive; whether intentionally or not, these photographs speak continuously of both death and life.