The art of photography entails an impossibility: that of trying to taste the real, to rub up against it, to have it subjugate you. Photography reflects the desire to touch something unmediated, to create from it an imaginary object that has not yet been trapped in the web of the symbolic. This desire seems unfounded, pathetic, romantic; it is an act of faith in the image and in its power to point to a singular, anomalous moment, faith in its ability to express, to reflect, to draw us in. Can the photographer’s gaze still capture an event through the camera’s eye? Is it possible to find movement and life in a natural landscape that is steadily shrinking, disappearing? Is there any power left in the act of photography, in the unique relationship that emerges between a photographer and the world? What is left of the image, the love child of this strange and outdated form of intimacy? In this project I was trying to see if it’s still possible to not conceptualize the medium of photography, but to use it in the way that my favorite photographers used it before me, be it Robert Frank or Robert Adams or Stephen Shor. They used photography as a tool to explore their relationship with the landscape, they trusted the viewfinder as something that can reveal unnoticed parts of the world, as well as reflect some part of photographer’s soul, submerging and relishing in the comforting and challenging modernist thought, that the camera can be an extension of you and an expression of your inner self. This way, the search in the surrounding landscape becomes a quest for clues and meanings, beauty and transcendence, in a Zen-like experience that the camera enables you. This are the questions I am preoccupied by when I set out to photograph the strange and haunting landscapes of Israel. Of course, There are no answers here, only the gut feeling that we’ve lost the innocence of photography, the basic means for it to be a window and a mirror, and the stubborn but tranquil persistence to keep looking, keep searching.