Gilad Benari
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| Photographer Gilad Benari, drawing by ben heine |
Gilad Benari is a talented photographer (conceptual artist more precisely) and poet. He is a big inspiration for me and for my evolution as a photographer. With his astounding photos, he lets us see the simple elements of our world in a different and beautiful way.
Gilad says: "I love to vary my experience in photography. I believe that the real joy in photography is in the trivial, in small things".
Gilad says: "I love to vary my experience in photography. I believe that the real joy in photography is in the trivial, in small things".
Gilad comes from Israel (Tel Aviv). The good thing with his photos is that they show another side of his country, often criticized because of it's offensive policy towards Palestine.
He explains: "Israel suffers an image of being a desert land, or simply a war zone, when showing it all over the world news. Being a photographer and a writer, I have a chance to show otherwise."
See his website,
his Deviant Art page,
and his Flick'r page.
Gilad can be contacted at :
giladbenari@walla.com
Below are some of my favorite
photos by him (click to enlarge) :
.
his Deviant Art page,
and his Flick'r page.
Gilad can be contacted at :
giladbenari@walla.com
Below are some of my favorite
photos by him (click to enlarge) :
Tel Aviv Dance
.
Tall City
Azrieli Center
Two Burning Matches
Between Earth and Sky
One Day
Window of Opportunity
Clouds Factory
* * *
Narcissus, Photographer
By Erica Jong
Mirror-mad,
he photographed reflections:
sunstorms in puddles,
cities in canals,
double portraits framed
in sunglasses,
the fat phantoms who dance
on the flanks of cars.
Nothing caught his eye
unless it bent
or glistered
over something else.
He trapped clouds in bottles
the way kids
trap grasshoppers.
Then one misty day
he was stopped
by the windshield.
Behind him,
an avenue of trees,
before him,
the mirror of that scene.
He seemed to enter
what, in fact, he left.
(The poem appeared on ericajong.com)
Narcissus, Photographer
By Erica Jong
Mirror-mad,
he photographed reflections:
sunstorms in puddles,
cities in canals,
double portraits framed
in sunglasses,
the fat phantoms who dance
on the flanks of cars.
Nothing caught his eye
unless it bent
or glistered
over something else.
He trapped clouds in bottles
the way kids
trap grasshoppers.
Then one misty day
he was stopped
by the windshield.
Behind him,
an avenue of trees,
before him,
the mirror of that scene.
He seemed to enter
what, in fact, he left.
(The poem appeared on ericajong.com)
