Gezicht op het Casa di Marco Lucrezio in Pompeï c. 1860 - 1880

Editor: Here we have Giorgio Sommer’s “View of the Casa di Marco Lucrezio in Pompeii,” a gelatin-silver print from around 1860-1880. It’s incredibly evocative, almost haunting, capturing a moment frozen in time. What draws your eye when you look at this image? Curator: It's funny, isn't it? We stare at these ancient ruins, imagining the vibrant lives that unfolded within those walls, the clamor of a marketplace, lovers' whispers...but all we see now is absence. Sommer’s genius lies in evoking that echo, that poignant silence. The ruined walls almost sing a forgotten song. Tell me, do you find that the medium itself, photography, enhances this sense of loss, compared to, say, a painting of the same scene? Editor: That’s a great point. Perhaps the photographic realism makes the loss feel more concrete, more factual somehow? Like undeniable evidence of a vanished world? Curator: Exactly. And isn’t there also something deeply philosophical in seeing how light and shadow play across these ruins, literally eroding and shaping what’s left? It's a quiet commentary on time's relentless march. Each crumbling brick whispers of grand ambitions and daily rituals turned to dust. This piece nudges us to think of temporality and invites some deep, melancholic introspection. Editor: It makes you wonder about our own legacies, doesn’t it? Curator: Absolutely! Looking at this artwork helped me see our future’s ephemerality a little clearer; like, how we’ll be ghosts haunting other people’s perception too, soon. Editor: I never considered photography having that capability. Now, seeing this work makes me feel both incredibly small, yet intensely connected to history at the same time. Thanks for your insight.