To See How the Moon Sees, 2016
rolled pigment print, 200 x 150 cm, steel tripod, spotlight.

In the 1960s, astronauts went to the moon and took the first photograph of Earth floating in the dark. This image “that man had pursued for centuries” – as Luigi Ghirri wrote decades ago – “held within it all previous, incomplete images, all books that had been written, all signs, those that had been deciphered and those that had not.”

But above all, it held within it all the pairs of eyes looking at that image itself: all the eyes that ever gazed at the moon. It held within it the complete evolution of sight – not only how we saw Earth and everything in it, but how we saw ourselves looking.

This view of the sky from the surface of Blue Marble disperses into a kaleidoscopic scene of billions of individual windows; every pair of eyes sees their own image of the heavens.
But seen from the heavens, these eyes merge into a single shimmering iris – one which begs an interstellar viewer to sense a familiarity in its gaze. For the first time, we could see how the moon sees us; because of this image, when we now look at the moon, it is possible to feel it looking back.

But how can we see how someone else sees? How can we experience anything outside our own bodies? I suppose we call it empathy. And as our arboreal ancestors evolved, the pursuit of empathy became an obligation: the redemption price of the human condition. But one must see far to reach a state of empathy. It exists somewhere in the distance, or in between, where two gazes overlap.