This is the story of a young photographer, who is in love with his beautiful girlfriend, an old camera and Roland Barthes. He insists obsessively that his black and white pictures reveal deeper levels of reality. Let's call him 'You'. The poetry of street protests, the antique shop, the red light in his photo lab, the nightclub Maze, the mirrors and the sex - this is the canvas of his confession and existential angst... However, why does 'You' confess to the man at the bar? Let's call him 'I'. Is he really madly in love with his girlfriend as he professes? Are his black and white pictures a true representation of reality? Or is it all just an elaborate reconstruction of deceitful montage?
