Panic in Lack of Event

Works

Text

Archive

Inkjet print, 184X150 cm
1 First Option
Inkjet print, 184X150 cm
2 Past Perfect
Inkjet print, 150X376 cm
3 Red
Inkjet print, 550X150 cm
4 Panic in Lack of Event
Inkjet print, 166X112 cm
5 Blue
Inkjet print, 65X98 cm
6 Red Descending the Staircase

In a world saturated by content, stimulation, and speed, the absence of an “event” creates panic. Stillness becomes unbearable. The quiet space between things, between thoughts, images, and decisions, is vanishing in a storm of dopamine-driven urgency: breaking news, vertical scrolling, curated outrage, and algorithmic noise.

In this chaos, nuance disappears. Complexity is compressed. Compassion and deep listening give way to hot takes and the illusion of clarity. Social media accelerates polarization, pressuring people to choose sides, while others, those who hesitate, question, or hold multiple truths, are left voiceless. The result is not connection, but fracture.

Coming from a classical photography background, I always question the foundations of the medium, especially the notion of the “decisive moment,” a concept rooted in a male-dominated, Eurocentric tradition. What gets erased when we frame the world through a singular, supposedly objective lens? Can new forms of knowledge appear when we let go of the need to resolve, define, or conclude? What do we begin to see when we stop looking for clarity and start honoring contradiction?

Panic in Lack of Event does not present a single truth. Instead, it holds space for disorientation and multiplicity, asking the viewer not for judgment, but for presence.

It does not aim to document history, but to question who constructs it, and how. It seeks to expose the mechanisms that shape memory.

Maybe the real event begins there: in what we do not yet understand, in what we choose to hold raher than resolve.

Eagle For 35 years, it sat on a cabinet in the living room of Leon Azoulay (my grandfather). Immigrated from Morocco to Israel in the early 1960s and quietly regretted it, day by day, until the end of his life. The eagle, hand-carved, wings spread, always mid-flight but going nowhere. It gathered dust, watched everything, said nothing. When it fell once, maybe twice, my grandfather restored it, sanding and erasing the scars, as if stillness deserved protection. Then he died. And the eagle ended up in my studio. There were no accidents this time, I set it on fire and photographed it holding the fire, glowing from within. After the last photo, I swept the floor. That’s when I noticed the green plastic bag.
A woman (my aunt Linda) once stood beside a light blue table. She said, “Your grandfather used to pause mid-sentence, like he heard something before the rest of us.” Then she left the room. He was a photographer. He behaved like a camera, always tuned to the decisive moment.
Fragments I got off the bus at a station in South Tel Aviv. It was 22:00. The station glass was already shattered. In the distance, three shadowy figures sped off on a shared electric bike. I could hear one of them shouting, 'Faster!' Alone at the station, I felt a strange mix of stillness and motion. My heart wasn’t just beating in my chest, it pulsed through my ribs, my back, my fingertips. Each breath felt magnified. It was almost a profound joy. Like everything had become equally urgent. There was no hierarchy. No blurred moment, no periphery or center. No winning story. I picked up a few fragments. Not as evidence. Not even as memory.
Green plastic bag It wasn’t mine. Thin, crumpled, the kind used for onions or bread. Inside: three objects wrapped in newspaper, each one heavier than it looked. No label. No handwriting. I didn’t open them right away. I made coffee. Sat with it on the table like a guest. I wasn’t sure how to greet it. Some inheritances are like that. They arrive late. They don’t knock.
This object changes shape when no one is looking. Don’t try it right away, it senses your expectation.
Metal Brush The third item in the green plastic bag was harder to name. A tool. Maybe. Metal wires, bundled tightly at the base, fanning out like something once alive. Possibly industrial. When I opened the newspaper, not knowing what I was activating, the wires sprang slightly outward, like they'd been waiting. I arranged my camera and lighting to photograph this “Odradek.” One minute later, the rocket alert-siren began. I left the studio without thinking. The public shelter nearby was already half full, Construction workers, nurses, grandmothers, daughters. Indian, Filipino, Arab, Jewish, Russian, Ukrainian. All packed into one room, the alarm still echoing outside. Waiting for it to pass. We all sat close, not talking much. One of the girls had a deck of cards and asked if I knew how to play. I said yes. Twenty minutes passed. The threat was over. No one left right away, as if we all needed to wait for something else to end. Back in the studio, the wires hadn’t moved. I photographed it once. Didn’t touch it again.
Handle Wrapped in a folded newspaper (also in the green plastic bag) was a handle. Brass with a round red glass end. Maybe from a drawer. Maybe from a door. Taped to the metal stem, a small, folded note. The paper was thin, with creases as if it had been opened many times. Written in blue ink was this: Dear one, I know it’s heavy right now. You don’t need to explain. Even quiet pain has its shape. I see it. I see you. You don’t have to be strong. Just don’t disappear.. I’m not going anywhere. I placed the note back exactly as I found it.
Barometer Wrapped in an old newspaper (inside the green plastic bag) was a barometer. Heavy, analog, round-faced. A tool for reading air pressure. For predicting change. Late 19th century, most likely. German, I think. Maybe Polish. It didn’t say. Now it was here. In my studio. I dropped it by mistake. It didn’t break, but the needle spun in a full circle and stopped at “Storm.” I photographed it.

Linguistic Turn, Braverman Gallery, Tel Aviv, 2013
HALLEN 06, Willhelm Hallen, Berlin, 2025