«It was there: a pause in time.»
Roland Barthes describes the special existence of photography between the past and the future as a «catastrophe of time.» On one hand, photography captures a moment that has irrevocably passed and cannot be altered. On the other hand, it always contains a premonition of death, because the person depicted will inevitably die in the future. Thus, photography belongs fully to neither the past nor the present. For the viewer, the photograph becomes a source of inner tension. We see a person «alive, ” yet simultaneously understand that this moment no longer exists. A paradox emerges: photography affirms „this was, ” but at the same time reminds us of the finiteness of life. Unlike memory or cinema, photography does not unfold over time. It freezes a moment forever, making it motionless. It is this cessation that creates the feeling of „catastrophe“: time does not move forward; it freezes in a single frame. For instance, when viewing an old family photograph, the viewer may experience both warmth and anxiety simultaneously. Even if the person in the picture is alive, it is clear that this moment will never be repeated. Photography captures not just an image, but a loss. Photography evokes such a powerful emotional experience because it remains in the past, even though it embodies life—and life in the past no longer exists.
Speaking of the past, I always feel negative emotions. This stems from the understanding that a person has only two most valuable resources—health and time—and these are often limited for the majority. Every time, even just by recalling the past, you spend time on it instead of moving toward the future, staying instead in the present. Happiness, as simple as it sounds, isn’t about avoiding boredom; it’s about remaining in the present, because if you dwell there, the future never arrives, and you experience nothing new. One of the most common mistakes people make is living in the past and becoming dependent on it—convincing themselves that things won’t be as good as they were before, without trying to engage with the future. The fear of death in the future can contribute to this, but I believe that perhaps precisely because of death, people fear the future. For example, they often look back at old photographs because they realize they won’t have time to take new ones, when they could instead use that time to explore the future. In my opinion, death is a very strange concept—no one can prove that after death there is no life, no sleep, no video game! This might sound funny, but death is also not a serious matter; people have no idea what comes after it, yet they call it a tragedy. I won’t elaborate on examples where a person’s death is more of a release from pain than a loss. Death, as a physical event, is no different from a person ceasing to develop. What difference does it make whether you are lying in the ground or on a couch if you are not open to the future? The only difference in the latter is that you cannot do it physically if we are speaking about our world without knowing what lies beyond death.
Roland Barthes writes that in the case of photography, one cannot deny that the object was present, unlike in all other forms of imitation. It involves an overlay of reality and the past, and this limitation applies only to photography; therefore, it should be considered its noema, its essence. The title in this case would be «it was there.» Because photography is inherently based on a pose—as Barthes and I observe a photograph—we inevitably incorporate the thought that it was there into our view. There was a moment when the real object stood before our eyes. The intention in the photograph that I perceive is the reference that constitutes the foundation of the photo. When the photograph comes alive and becomes cinema, the noema changes, because then something passed by rather than being fixed in a permanent pose, whereas in cinema, something moves onward without being fixed or halted. The noema «it was there» is irrefutable, in my personal opinion, just as I stated above—the nature of photography is the pose, and it does not matter how long something was physically in front of the operator.
The concept of time is also discussed in the text «The Possibility of the Worst.» This refers to a possibility that does not align with the actual, the necessary, or the impossible. It is the possibility of a perfected alternative—something not obliged to happen, yet not capable of being eliminated. In the present tense, the phrase «there is always another possibility» means that what currently exists does not exhaust reality. The present is never closed! Everything that is present is accompanied by what it is not, but what it could have been. In the future tense, another possibility is essentially a promise; it is crucial to understand that it is neither a prediction nor a plan! The future may bring not only the worst, but also the best, because the future is radically unpredictable—it can shatter all expectations. For Malabu, the past is not closed: it retains the negative possibility of a different course of events, which continues to exert influence. Faith is not agreement with content, but openness to a possibility of event that cannot be proven or disproven! Another possibility exists in the logic of negation: (a form of negation that simultaneously affirms); it can neither be affirmed nor eliminated—by denying it, we continue to believe in it. The possibility of the worst arises where the negative possibility attempts to become reality, transitioning from a question to a demand. The conclusion is that «possibility» signifies not a choice, but an openness! Openness to the fact that there is no closure!
Thus, for Roland Barthes, photography is presented not merely as a means of preserving an image, but as a unique form of time’s existence, in which life and loss are inseparable. It fixes a moment that has already passed, thereby constantly returning the viewer to the realization of the finitude of both the moment and human existence. Turning to the past through photography can become a trap: by freezing in the gaze upon «what was, ” a person risks losing momentum toward the future and the very experience of life as a process. In this sense, photography simultaneously affirms the reality of the past and exposes the danger of stasis—physical, temporal, and internal. Its noema, „it was there, ” not only asserts the fact of existence but also demands a choice from the viewer: to remain in a frozen present or to continue moving forward, embracing the uncertainty of the future.
