Bevis Fusha, our trainer at “Projekt 5.6”. A member of “Anzenberger”, an international photographic agency, in Vienna,Austria. His works were published at “East" , a book ideated from Regina Maria Anzenberger, the head of this agency.
A lek is a hundred qindarks; a fox flees through the snow; a path is a thousand steps. A horse can finally run free, perhaps anywhere it wants. There is something mysterious about the pictures of the young Albanian photographer Bevis Fusha. Something is distantly reminiscent of the flickering and poetic shaking that are part of the silent-film era, and the puzzle and its solution always seem to hang in an undecided balance. Fusha maintains this balance when he views his country from the inside, like the suggestion of a trace disappearing in the contre-jour as it heads into the distance. This lack of definition, which perhaps leads to nameless mountains but never to familiar places, may be there for a variety of reasons. This characteristic is certainly no longer decreed by the State, as part of keeping in step in Stalinist isolation imposed from above for decades. Probably also because the traces that Fusha follows with his camera are frequently older and more archaic than much that is found elsewhere in the Balkans. Blurred images also simply fit this corner of Europe. For Albania is a strange land. Countless karstified mountains. A people whose origin is lost in legend. A language that is only a distant cousin of Europe’s established linguistic families. And a country name, Shqipëria, that means nothing more or less than “eagle”. Gazing through Fusha’s peepholes into Albania’s present, one would hardly suspect that eight European capitals are hardly an hour away from Tirana by air.
Ingo Petz
A lek is a hundred qindarks; a fox flees through the snow; a path is a thousand steps. A horse can finally run free, perhaps anywhere it wants. There is something mysterious about the pictures of the young Albanian photographer Bevis Fusha. Something is distantly reminiscent of the flickering and poetic shaking that are part of the silent-film era, and the puzzle and its solution always seem to hang in an undecided balance. Fusha maintains this balance when he views his country from the inside, like the suggestion of a trace disappearing in the contre-jour as it heads into the distance. This lack of definition, which perhaps leads to nameless mountains but never to familiar places, may be there for a variety of reasons. This characteristic is certainly no longer decreed by the State, as part of keeping in step in Stalinist isolation imposed from above for decades. Probably also because the traces that Fusha follows with his camera are frequently older and more archaic than much that is found elsewhere in the Balkans. Blurred images also simply fit this corner of Europe. For Albania is a strange land. Countless karstified mountains. A people whose origin is lost in legend. A language that is only a distant cousin of Europe’s established linguistic families. And a country name, Shqipëria, that means nothing more or less than “eagle”. Gazing through Fusha’s peepholes into Albania’s present, one would hardly suspect that eight European capitals are hardly an hour away from Tirana by air.
Ingo Petz
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