Robert Capa once said: “if your photographs aren’t good, it’s because you didn’t get close enough”.
When I met Gaal Cohen in the year of 2007, back then he was an amateur photographer who displayed a great avidity to turn photography into a way of contact with the world that surrounded him. An instrument of connection and appreciation, a way to make human contact and enjoy the exchange of anecdotes, glances and smiles of children, old women, young people and other persons, surprised by the approach that this man had to them in order to take their picture, almost always accompanied by some practical, and at the same time universal, advice that he implicitly owes them for having the chance of taking their picture.
But the passion he showed with people, he also showed with the city around him, with the eagerness to find beauty where apparently there is non. In poor neighborhoods and industrial areas with walls filled with graffiti, in neighborhoods struck by the passage of time, in rooftops or industrial factories. But instead of emphasizing -and by doing so profit- from poverty or oblivion, Gaal Cohen addresses this condition from the alchemist desire, to give the spectator a break in a poetic, and always positive perspective as if it was an illusion.
Gaal Cohen is an untiring photographer, obsessed with carrying his camera wherever he goes, that achieves to transmit the closeness he got and obtained in every photograph he took. He is a kind of hunter, of light, of moments, traces, glances and instants.
This exhibition brings us closer to his most recent work, where his journeys become present and remind us of the precise moment where we notice the instant that passed by, memory and oblivion of everyday events that surround us. Where the basic composition units reach pictorial parameters.
“Only in the metro can I realize that traveling with the metro is like being inside a clock. The stations are the minutes, you see, is that time that is yours, that is now; but I know there is another, and I have been thinking, thinking…”.
Fragment of Julio Cortázar’s “El perseguidor”.