...there is no escape. I suffer, motionless. Cruel, sterile deficiency: I cannot transform my grief, I cannot let my gaze drift; no culture will help me utter this suffering which I experience entirely on the level of the image's finitude (this is why, despite its codes I cannot read a photograph): the Photograph- my Photograph- is without culture: when it is painful, nothing in it can transform my grief into mourning...I avoid looking at it (or avoid its looking at me), deliberately disappointing its unendurable plenitude, and, by my very inattention, attaching it to an entirely different class of fetishes: the icons which are kissed in the Greek churches without being seen - on their shiny glass surface.