Koimao

• Prize
  Silver in Science/Medicine
• Photographer
  Corrado Tria

Vincenzo, is in a coma for more then four years, the last words he asked to report to me were: “tell Corrado I’ve always loved him, even if he won’t believe it” It was a hospital worker, chemist and scholar; he knew he could die at any moment and did not want any tranquillizer during the nearly 10 hours waiting. He considered it unnecessary. Despite the surgery survived and now we can comunicate, ho can hear, understand, talk to me with eye movement. And crying. And he laughs. I always had a sincere relationship with him, he wept in front of me without any shame, had no masks and now he even less of it. Now, a part of him (the body, the mask that we all wear sometimes) is dead, is stuck in bed; when I can take him to his room, on his “groom bed” or in the garden. I can not always, unfortunately. I want to tell my point of view, I want to be an attentive spectator who renounces twists. The hung shirt is the dress he often wore before surgery, the light switch is now surrounded by a dirt wall (we often get up at night). The tree that I photographed has been planted by his father, he used to say. The collection has a name, “Koimao” which etymology comes from “coma” because I want to deeply understand my real feelings without stopping on the surface. These photos are part of a personal collection which I’m not sure if will ever come to an end, it’s aim is not to look for peoples mercy or special attention (it doesn’t interest me) but to give a search of the relationship existing between us two. Him who smiles, despite the situation, if I put a mask on his face. Him who says to see me out of focus. He is Vincenzo, my dad. She is Daniela, my mom. The second picture shows them both, Christmas 2016.