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The architect Louis Kahn, who spoke of certain structures with a poetic and almost religious awe, once said, "The sun never knew how great it was until it struck the side of a building." A similar interplay of light and architecture—whether the architect in question is man or nature—lies at the heart of Dominique Bollinger's photographs of the south of Italy. Bollinger favors the blinding, brilliant light of midday sun; he is drawn to the way it illuminates the white buildings of Sicily and the rocks of Sardinia. "It's pure light, clear light, like the transparency of a diamond," he says. Not just mad dogs and Englishmen, then—Bollinger, too, relishes the stillness of the streets when the sun is at its apex. "I can concentrate more on the facades," he says. The result is a series of images that appear to float in time. And despite their graphic and even geometrical nature, the images are soft, as if they were coated in a fine layer of ash. Bollinger's lens, Medusa-like, has turned these structures into light.
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