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PIERRE ANDRÉ TRANSUNTO
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TIME IN THE HANDS
I do not remember the exact day.
I remember the light.
It entered from the side — sharp, uninvited.
It shaped the face, deepened the wrinkles, leaving the rest in shadow.
My grandfather was there.
Standing still.
With that posture that is not a pose, but habit.
He had truly fought, many years before.
Not only in the ring.
There was something in his hands.
A way of holding them, closing them, never fully revealing them.
As if the gesture had remained, even after time had done its work.
I did not ask anything.
There was no need.
I photographed that moment the way certain things are held onto:
without making noise.
Film records, but it does not explain.
And perhaps that is how it should be.
Some images do not belong entirely to the present.
They remain suspended between what has been and what still remains.
This is one of them.