Treble Clef

The shape of Fernanda Galdino’s body immediately reminded me of a treble clef. Perhaps because, as children, my brother and I took keyboard lessons, and reading sheet music was part of that small domestic world. It was precisely the part that bored me the most. There was a mathematical precision to that notation that seemed far removed from what I imagined music to be. Today I recognize my mistake. Music is also calculation, proportion, interval, duration, repetition, and movement. Perhaps that is why I regret not continuing. My mother used to say that one day I would regret it. She was right.

Music has a singular ability to reach us from within, often before we can understand its structure. A sequence of notes can alter our breathing, summon memories, and change the rhythm of the body. Photography has something of that power when it finds a form capable of continuing to vibrate after the moment has ended.

Here, the diagonals seem to write across space. The body establishes one line, the skateboard extends another, the arm adds a direction, and from these relationships emerges a kind of bodily score. The natural lines of movement meet the geometry of the composition and transform the trick into writing.

Gravity functions as the invisible meter of this music. It determines the tension, demands precision, and offers resistance. Fernanda seems to inscribe a phrase in space for a fraction of a second, and the photograph preserves its notation.

Perhaps this is the connection that interests me most: sheet music transforms sound into signs; photography transforms movement into form. Both preserve a passage that, without a record, would disappear in the following instant.