What is a landscape? Is it an idea of desire? I sit on the edge of a precipice, looking at the mountains before me. The desire for possession presses my finger against the shutter of the camera... No! It is not enough. I reach my hand into the landscape. It is blood that begins to pour from the mountains and the valleys. I ask: Is this a criminal illusion? What is a landscape? Is it a specter of memory and the imaginary? I ask: What did the landscape whisper into the ear of your eye? How far does the extent of its reality reach? To which one of these does it belong? To the living space and time, or to a lost space and time in the past, or even in the future?