As my confidence in the information supplied to us by the government and mass media wanes, I feel more and more like I’m living in a fantastical realist novel by Gunter Grass or Gabriel Garcia Marquez; I’m ready to accept almost any reality, as long as I have some sort of direct experience with it, confirming that it’s real. When I travel and have the time to think and make pictures, I question everything I see, just to verify that it is what it seems. As larger things (like who’s really in charge? and what’s motivating their decisions?) are far too opaque to satisfactorily examine, I limit myself to the examination of simpler things, like a dead calf, or a mound of dirt in a field, although even these things often remain mysteries to me. Sometimes I feel like I’m taking pictures of monuments that have lost their explanatory plaques and melted into their surroundings, leaving no clue as to their reason for being. Sometimes I feel like I’m collecting evidence, just trying to build a case: yes, this was, you can see it quite plainly here in this photograph. In the end, I make pictures as a way to understand the things in front of me, or at least to gather the evidence so I can ask questions later.