The combat with the body and death, with the body of sense is indeed a difficult labrinth. But where does Victor Vázquez get this fascinating fondness for fixing what happens, for chasing after the invisible, for surmounting time? No doubt, he gets it from photography, which is dominated, according to Peter Weiermair, by the scopophile’s passion, the passion of seeing. It is a sacrifice and a time of expectancy that does not always descry anything more than nothing.
In all probability, Victor Vázquez sees the body as the place of resistance of an erotic discourse that refuses to die, but knows that this desire is nothing more than a vain illusion and that, in the long run, one always desires in terms of death. He does not consider this body immediately as a battlefield, but rather as a place destined to flow, leaving traces, symptoms, disjointed scenes as in a dream; that translate us and transport us into another place, still and all familiar, passing through, always in transit and abandoning its sense in order to derive in another yet to be established: in the pages of a blank, open book, on a path to be walked on, an egg to be broken, a tattoo to be engraved, a trace or print to fossilize. The corporeality of a body, in the end, consists in its living and flowing for death.