Exposure № 064: Pirkei Avot

Love work, and despise official positions, and do not become too acquainted with the governing power

Photographer Conrado Sarid-Maletah shares this brilliant series of photos, which he describes as an attempt to translate passages from Pirkei Avot (The Master’s Sentences) into visual poetry. He admires the sense of balance, justice and self-control embodied in the 1800 year old text.

When East meet West the sea, the blue sea start to sing  silent songs

In this project, Sarid-Maletah attempts to interpret literally the sentences from the text while being critical of them.

One who uses the crown will pass away

Sarid-Maletah says:

Portraiture is a very special way to “speak”  because you need to play with the other, you need to communicate with the model first and if the results are ok, the model will be a great way to speak to the public. In these images my model was an Armenian man living in Haifa, North Israel. A very special experience for both of us.

The main thing is not to study but to do

Stay tuned for more of Conrado’s images.

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Conrado Sarid-Maleta’ is a Cuban photographer and painter. He left his home country six years ago, and has not returned. Most recently, he has lived and worked in Europe, and is now in Tel Aviv, Israel. He learned photography with the help of a great Cuban artist, later continuing alone and working very hard to increase day by day what he knew. Mainly, his works use the visual experience as a means to connect with ideas rather than with techniques or methodological processes. He prefers to be a storyteller rather than a perfectionist.

Python Unapologetic

Night’s thick sticky mad air
tangible on the eyelashes
caught in the hair, jammed
between the manzana lips &
the sharp-tipped teeth of

Tonight, this dance floor
a world of its own:
littered with bodies, steaming
pixilated lovers & women like skyscrapers

Three inch spiked stakes slammed
into the dance floor with each
boom of bass and stumble in judgment.
Tall impossibly stable, so defined
they may drill straight through to hell
them fire-tipped stilettos.

Python apex peaks, arch like snakes
around prey, split-tongue lovers
spineless scaled & secret soft-bellied
contracting with each step hissed
across the Saturday stage
until we’re bitten one too
many and barefoot.

Blood orange patent leathers
pumping Sanguinello Salsas and Cha-Chas
through tight knit veins of bare legs
pounding out 1,2s and 1,2,3s
on a blind bar:  kicking Cosmos
stomping Kamikazes’ citrus,
raw as a rind.

Tonight, these heels
are the grand sum of our existence.

Nights’ wild-gilled gullet
scream for Crepe Satin Peep Toes,
red-bellied Louboutins, plum Sling Backs
out the Chinese Laundry & Choo
Zebra Print Cameroons.

Tonight, we are the Sears,
the Chrysler, the Eiffel,
the Empire State &
Tonight, we won’t size-down
for the guy in the button-down
or an ache in the heel bone.
Tonight, these overpriced soles’
pumping is more vital than a hearts’,
will heal the bone, the ache but
not tomorrow’s hungover heartbreak.

Tonight, we:  Shake down cities with
each spike slammed step of your Flamenco,
steal cherries out the bottomless Manhattans
with sharp stabs of stilettos, spell
out trouble with our two-tipped tongues:

You get bad for me &
I promise to walk all over you.