Wedding photography has its own codes, its own rituals. City hall, church, bouquet, sparkling wine, cake and buffet are among the stages that must be respected along the embellished path of happiness; waterfronts at sunset or melancholy ruins, a twilight future on the horizon. Each moment must be immortalized in a photograph so that those instants remain engraved in memory like the names on wedding rings.
Like silverware gifted at weddings – the metal upon the first daguerreotypes were imprinted – the most beautiful day of your life, the one we would like to be so festive and bright, slips slowly into the shadows of daily perdition. Memories and photographs fade as love languishes. A cruel alchemy that sees the gold becoming lead, the bridal dress turning off like a lampshade. What is agitating on the surface of the image reveals the drowning of the floating ghost. Which one will keep those sudden unfamiliar photographs after the divorce? Who leaves, who stays, who is still in love? Divorce photography has yet to be invented.
For some years now Marilisa Cosello has decided to question the photographic archive: at first her own family history, where the mysteries and doubts appear for those who know how to read childhood wonder; summers on the Adriatic shores, middle school party costumes and birthdays in the garden. Matrimonio is other people's archives, collected during a trip abroad, reproduced and reworked to give a new interpretation, denying any definitive character to photography. Far from yielding to temptation of pursuing the vernacular image – very fashionable today in the world of photography – these images are the material of reflection on a woman's destiny, the stereotypes that compels or drives her.
The document here fades in front of evidence: she repeats snaps, superimposes them, interprets them and brings them back as a show, whose recreation would entrust their own sense, opposing to the certainty of the image the precariousness of destiny. The existence of those that were once impressed, of which we will know nothing, except that vanquished appearance, will betray the image, abandoning it without regret. Yet nothing strides, there is no despair in Marilisa Cosello's path, no lesson to be inflicted. There only remains the blatant realisation of the transience of those images, composed in the present, but married to an uncertain future.