A Day

installation / 2016
 

 In August 2014, the shutter of this camera was released at Kilauea Volcano in Hawaii. There were just enough clouds, and little volcanic smoke. Through the screen, the ground appeared almost glossy; by drawing closer, one could even sense the cooled layers of lava lying beneath its surface. Yet it remained untouchable. The only thing I could do was ask someone to photograph that landscape as it appeared on my computer screen.

 Who does a photograph truly belong to?

 Legally, copyright belongs to the owner of the recording medium, but I found such a simple and definitive criterion difficult to accept. I asked a friend traveling to Hawaiʻi to carry my camera and a portable battery. On August 21, the day she visited Kīlauea Volcano, we remained connected via FaceTime throughout her journey. As she walked, I directed her to point the camera toward places I indicated while I watched the live image on my computer screen. The shutter was pressed by her hand, and the photograph came into existence at that very moment.

 According to the rules, the photograph unquestionably belongs to the person who pressed the shutter. The landscape, too, was part of her own lived experience. Yet embedded within that image are not only Kīlauea Volcano on August 21, but also my own memory.