My father almost died last year and I was very afraid at that moment. I went to the place where he had surgery. Human bodies were alive, but on the border of what we call life and death. They lay open and dissolved at surgical tables. Mere pieces of meat, but still alive.
What is the difference between me, those who operate and those who lie motionless? What do those ones who hold someone’s heart beats in their hands look like? I found myself in an atmosphere hidden behind closed doors, with those who are in despair because of the people inside. I was looking at eyes, not much at hands. Different eyes that were talking. The eyes of doctors, above the masks covering most of their faces, were so expressive and unambiguous.
And suddenly, for me, all mystery disappeared. People listened to the music and worked. Worked so hard. I thought that I could never be so agile. I looked at my friend working, fixing, cutting, stitching. And somehow everything became very lively; people were fixing other people mechanically. We all come here to have ourselves repaired. They are fixing professors, workers, politicians, buggers, criminals, maniacs, naive, those who are left and those in love ... and they give them the opportunity. No, they cannot fix important stuff inside of human souls. Not as people, not as a photographer, even as surgeons, in those labyrinths we never succeed to enter. But this is not important, because this brings us back to the very core, that no matter what we were, we are just a piece of meat. And actually what is happening in the surgical rooms is life from the beginning till the very end.
