Nausea
Jean-Paul Sartre. Nausea. Trans. Lloyd Alexander. New York: New Directions Publishing, 1964.

The NAUSEA
I live alone, entirely alone. I never speak to anyone, never; I receive nothing, I give nothing… When you live alone you no longer know what it is to tell something: the plausible disappears at the same time as the fiends. You let events flow past; suddenly you see people pop up who speak and who go away, you plunge into stories without beginning or end: you make a terrible witness. But in compensation, one misses nothing, no improbability or, story too tall to be believed in cafes. [14-5]

Objects should not touch because they are not alive. You use them, put them back in place, you live among them. They are useful nothing more. But they touch me, it is unbearable. I am afraid of being in contact with them as though they were living beasts. [19]

People who live in society have learned to see themselves in mirrors as they appear to their friends. Is that why my flesh is naked? You might say - yes you might say, nature without humanity… Things are bad! Things are very bad: I have it, the filth, the Nausea. [29]

The Nausea is not inside me: I feel it out there in the wall, in the suspenders, everywhere around me. It makes itself one with the cafי , I am the one who is within it. [31]

I grow warm, I begin to feel happy. There is nothing extraordinary in this, it is a small happiness of Nausea: it spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of out time - the time of purple suspenders, and broken chair seats; it is made of white, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain. No sooner than born, it is already old, it seems as though I have known it for twenty years. [33]

I tear myself from the window and stumble across the room; I glue myself against the looking glass. I stare at myself, I disgust myself: one more eternity. Finally, I flee form my image and fall on the bed. I watch the ceiling I'd like to sleep. [46]

I am all alone, but I march like a regiment descending on a city… I am full of anguish: the slightest movement irks me. I can't imagine what they want with me. Yet I must choose: I surrender to the Passage Gillet, I shall never know what has been reserved for me. [77]

Nothing seemed true; I felt surrounded by cardboard scenery which could quickly be removed…. [106-7]

I can't say I feel relieved or satisfied, just the opposite, I am crushed. Only my goal is reached: I know what I have to know; I have understood all that has happened to me since January. The Nausea has not left me and I don't believe it will leave me so soon; but I no longer have to bear it, it is no longer an illness or a passing fit: it is I. [170]

Noam Dror
What seems to interest me is the absence of knowledge.

Mirit Chervinski
Here there occurs a savage hygiene, any attempt at describing which would be a kind of pollution.

Here a burn is seared in the eye of whoever regards the sun without shifting his gaze.  And the burn is the document.

Motti Yifrach
In the photographic process, light is converted by mechanical intermediary into a two-dimensional image.

This transcendental process defines the essence of my work.

The work process commences with a certain intuitive sensation, proceeding ultimately to a concrete photograph representing that sensation.