©
For me, the Photographer’s organ is not his eye (which terrifies me) but his finger: what is linked to the trigger of the lens, to the metallic shifting of the plates (when the camera still has such things). I love these mechanical sounds in an almost voluptuous way, as if, in the Photograph, they were the very thing - and the only thing - to which my desire clings, their abrupt click breaking through the mortiferous layer of the Pose. For me the noise of time is not sad: I love bells, clocks, watches - and I recall that at first photographic implements were related to techniques of cabinetmaking and the machinery of precision: cameras, in short, were clocks for seeing, and perhaps in me someone very old still hear in the photographic mechanism the living sound of the wood.
by Roland Barthes - Camera Lucida

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