It’s his shadows that are beautiful. Deep brown, the color you get when you mix all the colors together. Soft shadows made from soft pastels, little ghosts of color and shade that make the curve of a woman’s breast or the drop-off of some hill at the edge of the world come to life, more than real. Rainbow shadows that are more striking than light.
There’s something very fetus-like about some statues – half-formed, half-formless, a vague shape that is still more an idea than something concrete – an idea made solid, a sketch with dimension (3).
One need not be a Chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Far safer, of a midnight meeting,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.
Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase
Than, moonless, one’s own self-encounter
In lonesome place.
Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most,
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror’s least.
The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O’erlooking a superior spectre
— Emily Dickinson
(overheard: “I know you have to understand poetry like that but this poetry doesn’t make any sense.”)