Firstly, Max photographed Bunny in a straight-forward fashion, but quietly, sensitively. Later on in the project, he decided to create patchworks out of the printed photos, representing the several versions and peculiarities of Bunny. The photos don’t veer into movie cliche depictions of split personalities or extreme mental instability. What Max found in his bloodline was not chaos, but cheerfulness, slight stress, some loneliness. Bunny is as normal as anyone else, evidently. He’s thoughtful, gentle and has spent a long time alone with his thoughts. “[He’s] someone who has often been described rather than properly seen,” says Max. Bunny And I hints at the tension inside all domestic lives, using mosaic compositions to offset what we’re seeing ever so slightly. Like a quietly glitching documentary.
In some photos, Bunny lies on his back with a drink resting on his hand, other times light falls across his face in the living room. Although he’s alert and enjoys drinking, he’s never out of control – he’s sharp and “notices patterns everywhere” – which manifest in the aesthetic of his own cut-up photographs and indeed inside of his personal notebooks. Bunny and Max share the same laugh, their grandfather’s, and when Max fixed Bunny’s television, an antique model car appeared on screen, identical to the one he had given Max half an hour earlier. It’s in these continuous coincidences that moved Max to realise that blood runs deep – we can all be quite alike. “Bunny and I is not about diagnosis or spectacle,” says Max. “It is about attention. About what happens when you spend a day really looking at someone you thought you knew. About two relatives meeting again as strangers and finding reflections in each other along the way.”