ZARATHUSTRA
Paradise lost
by David Deloustal
by David Deloustal
The following photos were taken during three evenings in July 2024. They have, I had, a single subject: a cocaine addict who injects himself in his stifling maid’s room, prays to Zarathustra, invokes Zarathustra, insults Zarathustra, curses Zarathustra, maybe even challenges him. He doesn’t do it for fun, it’s not a joke, it’s not theater: when Fred spits on Zarathustra, he really spits, when Fred screams, the neighbors scream too, so Fred says he knows that he is being spied on, he goes to get the two knives in the kitchen, puts them on his knees, turns off the light and looks into the dark and I wait in silence, in respect, Zarathustra is somewhere in the room.
I do not interrupt the silence; silence and speech are Fred’s business, he quickly made me understand that. I’m here to take photos, nothing else. In a few minutes, Fred will inject his second dose, look for a vein in his arm, miss it, scream, accuse me vehemently, massage the little ball of cocaine under his skin and push it towards the nearest vein. The drug will end up in his arm. The coke will end up in his eyes.
I do not interrupt the silence; silence and speech are Fred’s business, he quickly made me understand that. I’m here to take photos, nothing else. In a few minutes, Fred will inject his second dose, look for a vein in his arm, miss it, scream, accuse me vehemently, massage the little ball of cocaine under his skin and push it towards the nearest vein. The drug will end up in his arm. The coke will end up in his eyes.
He will shout: look at my eyes. He will shout: look at my eyes, damn, the coke, it’s rising, can you see it rising? Take a picture of my eyes, take a fucking picture of my eyes. Madness lights up his face. Fred is going to touch the divine.
Only then, because I know I’m no longer there for him, do I get up and photograph for the allotted two hours. Two hours of psychotic madness versus two hours of photographic fever. This is the first part of the fool’s bargain.
Only then, because I know I’m no longer there for him, do I get up and photograph for the allotted two hours. Two hours of psychotic madness versus two hours of photographic fever. This is the first part of the fool’s bargain.
Then, all of a sudden, Fred will say: I’m tired, I’m going to bed, do you have what you want? How many good photos do you have? How many do you need for your book? I’ll tell you tomorrow. You’re going to make me a fucking good book, aren’t you? I’ll try, Fred. Second element of the fool’s bargain. Then we part like two friends on the doorstep. Third part of the fool’s bargain.
And, in the dark city, I go home with my head full of his screams, his violence and, in my eyes, just as there’s still a little cocaine to lick off the needle, there’s still a little of his madness. Why a fool’s bargain? He’s waiting for a book that flatters his narcissism (it’s not disinterested: the coke that keeps him afloat has a price - the book would be an additional income). Cowardly, I said nothing. My only words seem to have been: yes yes yes. He took them literally. Good for him as long as I’ve got my photos. Your friend? I don’t really know Fred, you’re my subject, I can’t go any further.
The next day, I went back with a knot in my stomach. A whirlwind of violence, madness, intimidation, gestures and looks that bring tears to my eyes... Yet that’s why I came. And the evil is already in me (fool’s bargain). It’s not just a question of photos, it’s a story of perdition.
As if glued to the speakers of madness, I get my dose too. So much silence, between each photo, I shut up, I persevere and I run away. Fred is as happy as a kid. Now I love the flame that rises in his eyes after his last dose, when his mind, about to explode, gives his body the images I need : twisted hands, knotted arms, open mouth and those scream like an agonizing death rattle. It’s in this communion of my photos and her madness that I look for a miracle.
Last session similar to the others. He’s ill. Doesn’t want to do it, then does it and connects to his world, which I try to capture again. You
can’t capture freedom. He’s somewhere else, I’ve joined him there somehow. Maybe he’ll crack after I get out of his house.
As if glued to the speakers of madness, I get my dose too. So much silence, between each photo, I shut up, I persevere and I run away. Fred is as happy as a kid. Now I love the flame that rises in his eyes after his last dose, when his mind, about to explode, gives his body the images I need : twisted hands, knotted arms, open mouth and those scream like an agonizing death rattle. It’s in this communion of my photos and her madness that I look for a miracle.
Last session similar to the others. He’s ill. Doesn’t want to do it, then does it and connects to his world, which I try to capture again. You
can’t capture freedom. He’s somewhere else, I’ve joined him there somehow. Maybe he’ll crack after I get out of his house.
Anyway, I have my images, he has his paradise.