These views are meant as postcards. They need not be addressed to anyone. When I was traveling, I used to buy postcards of places I wished to remember, or postcards of paintings in museums. Only the best-known paintings figure on postcards, and the most touristic views: the pilgrim house in Boston, the Pacific Ocean dotted with a few surfers in California, the Kremlin in Moscow.

Postcards are superficial views of the city, the images one remembers as a tourist, staying a few days in the place, not speaking the language, not knowing anyone, just passing by.

Sometimes I have taken the pictures myself with my phone. Sometimes I've found them on the Internet. Stole them, I should say. In the Google bar, I choose “image,” and look at the first few dozen, the most popular pictures of the place, as if I were wasting time in front of a shop, beside the beach in Karystos, Greece, idly looking at postcards in the showcase. The pictures I stole are real postcards. I should have only used those.

I don't use film, or videos, only photos, still images. Because movement introduces depth. And I want to avoid depth. Fear comes with, and from, depth: the emptiness when I look down from my window on the 11th floor, the immensity of the sea lying flat and blue. I may play with these photos. I may zoom in, or have the image glide across the screen. That is allowed. But the material is only made of still images.   

Postcards are superficial like the ego is in Freud's imagery. The ego is a membrane making contact between in the inner id and the outside world. The ego is a skin, an envelope around the id, filtering the sensations received from the outside and containing the horrific drives that come from within. At certain times, the membrane stretches, as if it were to break and let out the id, red with desire and slightly disgusting, an underdone steak.

These postcards are skin, an egoic membrane.