Category Archives: Magnificent

Dec7

Chamomile, Long Johns, & Hope

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I have been putting off writing this post for days, if not weeks now. So, on this Friday night, as I was walking over London Bridge, weaving my way through the masses of suited people wearing trainers on their feet and serious expressions on their faces, I decided that today would be the day I write about it; about the last few weeks.
I sneaked in the Pret at the corner of the bridge, got a ridiculously overpriced banana and an orange juice, found an uncomfortable chair, and sat in front of my open iPad.

So here we are. About 4 months ago, I woke up from a phone call with bad news, went to work to receive another one of these phone calls, took a four day trip to Greece to attend two funerals, came back, quit my job, and got an internship in the field I am actually interested in.
From almost the first week of my 3 month internship, I knew that I made the right choice, and this was terrifying; I was so close to it, I was living it, an experience with an expiration date, a fairy tale with numbered pages. It’s not necessarily the specific job that I was so attached to, even though I love the company. It was the fact that I was doing what I actually liked. I was in a creative field, with normal working hours, and an endless supply of inspiration. I will write a separate post about the internship, as it is not the focus of this post, and I don’t want it to take over.

However, you need to understand that throughout these three months, I worked hard in most aspects of my life. I was freelancing to gain some financial support, interning, writing this blog, adjusting to a different kind of living, and constantly looking for a job that I could pick up on the end of my internship. The truth is, I spent most of my time trying to ignore this nagging feeling that the uncertainty for the future was generating; I think the feeling was a cross between anxiety and fear, and I pushed it as back as I could. I was convinced that by the time the three months were up, I would find something; as the days became weeks, and applications never got responses, I still kept smiling, and giving the thumbs up, saying that everything would be ok.
One day, I received an email from one of my dream jobs. Very long story short, I spent a month preparing for 2 interviews, putting my hopes up, grabbing a seat at the top of the mountain and watching my hopes crashing down when I got a no the day after my second interview. I brushed it off, said that it was ok, moved on, applied to other jobs, got interviews, and even got a great offer. Was I really ok? No.
When that job gave me a negative response, everything inside me came tumbling down, even though I put a brave face and kept going. It was almost as someone that just run a marathon, and at the end said, ‘why don’t we go for a lovely walk, maybe some shopping, and the a bit of dancing afterwards?’.

This was not just about the job. It was about everything; about trying so hard, for so long, and coming so close only to get a lovely packaged ‘no’. It was about hope, and the energy that it requires. It was about the last year, everything that has happened, all the things that changed, all the things that stayed the same.
So if I could not realise it, my body would. I was exhausted, my energy levels completely depleted; and so for once, I decided to listen -actually, I had no choice. I acknowledged how finishing my internship made me feel (I spent that evening eating a family-sized Ben & Jerry’s on the couch, watching re-runs of Murder She Wrote and crying when the killer confessed). I spent the rest of that week taking it easy, wearing long johns, drinking chamomile, and getting on a first name basis with the take-away guy. I stayed in the house, relaxed, started reading up on meditation, began eating healthier, joined a gym, and finally acknowledged how much losing that opportunity meant to me. When I did that, some perspective crept in.

Does this mean that everything is magically ok? Again, no. It means that this whole experience was a reminder that I need to take care of myself, not stress to bursting levels, and most importantly, do something good for my body and soul every day.

Last week, one of the companies I was freelancing for offered me a position, and after weighing it up with the other offer, I gladly accepted it. I start on Monday. That is all from me. I now have a banana to finish before going for a quick swim.

Love,

G

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Dec6

Dark Knight or Dark Art? Andy Hope’s 1930 Comic Visions

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I am standing under a giant billboard for the Dark Knight DVD release. The poster is faded, and bits of it are torn. Everyone I know has seen it. I gaze up, my lips parting momentarily from my paper coffee cup. I cock my head to the left, a grimace spreading on my face, and I already feel critical.
You see, I have a special relationship with comic books. Childhood memories of summer holidays always smelt like sunscreen, sea salt, and paper. Dark ink on cheap pages, small speech bubbles and one-liners, fast action without action. In these pages, characters were living more in a square box than others have lived in their entire lives.
I remember coming out of the sea, running towards my towel (held on the sand by four large rocks, one on each corner), digging in the beach bag and bringing the latest comic book under me. The tips of my hair would drip on the page, making the ink run, the story coming to life. I remember quiet afternoons, when everyone had a quiet siesta; everyone but me and the crickets: I read, they sang. Of course, then I was too young to know how to read; but that did not matter. I knew that something important was happening in those pages, and that filled me with a thrill that I can still feel on my fingertips.

I grew up watching He-Man and She-Ra, reading Duck Tales, hunting for the latest issue of Xmen, Superman, and even Aquaman books. I think that the fond memories I have of these novels might be why I am so aware of the recent comic book-to-screen flood. Different Spidermen, Supermen, X-Men, Avengers, and well, Batmen are jumping in their Lycra (or leather) bodysuits, and fly (on a jet or with a cape) over the city skyline and to the top of the Box Office.
Some stay true to the original; some deviate. For me, the value is not necessarily on how loyal they remain to the actual story of the comic book; it is about the comic book feel that they carry with them on the big screen.
This reminded me of the adopted the name Andy Hope 1930 as he considered the year vital to the main elements of his work: the rise of the comic book to a mass medium and the abandonment of suprematism and Russian Constructivism.
Hope 1930 is known for his iconography, combining comic books, science fiction, mythology, history, pop culture, and literature in his work with bold use of brush strokes and colours. In the Medley Tour exhibition, he tried his own superhero talent, attempting to manipulate time:throughout the exhibition he revisits his past work, and identifies the path of his technique, deconstructing his work and working backwards in order to move forwards.
He uses familiar themes like the black masks from his depiction of Robin Dostoyevsky; the woman’s hairstyles from his paintings of Hollywood starlets; and the dark shapes that accompany the majority of his past work, to trace his journey through his work.
He also built an actual batcave inside the exhibition, referencing the classic Bruce Wayne hideaway, constructed with a playfulness that reminded me of my childhood view of the comic book world.
I look at the poster again. Anne Hathaway as Catwoman. I sigh. It starts raining, and as I begin walking again, I decide to clear my head from preconceptions, and go and watch the movie with an open mind.
To the Batmobile!

Love,

G

Nov19

A Family at Wartime

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I don’t like war movies. The closest I have been to watching a full movie about wartime is the Sound of Music, and even in that, I hated the part where Rolfe turned out to be a Nazi, trampled over Liesl’s heart, and almost robbed the Von Trap family of their freedom.

You see, I dread the thought of a war, and not in the war is bad-peace is good-let’s all sit in front of a campfire holding hands and sing cumbaya kind of way. I find it dreadful because I think that it is the perfect setting for the worst kind of human nature to break free. Yes, the tactical moves, and fights, and war casualties are awful enough, but what makes my skin crawl are accounts of ‘normal’ people doing despicable acts during these times.
From medical trials on prisoners to making furniture out of human skin, and from countless tales of betrayal to the dehumanising nature of power, wartime comes to show you that the worst kind of crimes can be committed outside of the battlefield.
This is why I found the Imperial War Museum’s ‘a Family at Wartime’ so heartwarming. The exhibition, fantastically curated in the far left corner of the ground floor, is a metaphor for all the good that shines through the human evil. Each family member stands for different ways that people in Britain (and I assume throughout the world) made the best out of the worst, made life liveable and saw the everyday as another day that their heart kept beating.

The exhibition is centred on the Allpress family who lived in Stockwell, where every member played a minuscule, yet important role in the war, having to cope with rationing, evacuation, war work and events such as the London Blitz and VE Day that shaped everyday life and the story of a nation.

The exhibition features a model house of the Allpress family home, a family tree diagram, photos and interviews, as well as recreations of the era billboards, settings, iconic propaganda posters and films.

Visitors can also get in a replica of an Anderson shelter, scan the airwaves for radio shows from the archives, and see a range of interactive exhibits that we’re really popular with the little ones (yes, and me…).

However, the show stopper has to be the corridor that leads to the exit. On your left, a map of the area with marks on the bombing sites, explains the different levels of destruction that these metal cones of death caused. On the right wall, you will find paintings from the wartime, that literally paint a picture of overcoming terror by unity.

A few steps down and I am in the specially constructed gift shop, and I want to buy everything. The whole space is reminiscent of a home from that time, with vintage games, cushions, and cookbooks from the war.

I leave the museum with a bag of sweets. As I sit on the park bench outside, I open the bag, munch down a couple of jellies, and gaze at the giant cannons in the middle of the courtyard. I wonder if we learned. I wonder if we ever will.

Love,

G

Nov9

Girl in Front of a Boy

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The woman next to me stops on her tracks. She looks through her watery eyes, stares at the shop assistant behind the counter, and starts:
‘I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her‘ she says with an audible pain in her voice. The shop assistant smiles politely, and then grabs a pile of books and makes her way to the back of the store. She looks used to this expression of unrequited love. The woman next to me giggles, and turns to her friend to see if she got the whole thing on her phone; a thumbs up and a loud giggle later, and a man with a yellow sweater has taken her place, reciting the same monologue with the same pained expression.
You see, I am inside the Notting Hill bookshop, standing very near to the spot that Julia Roberts made her final plea to Hugh Grant. As I see a sea of tourists taking pictures, I approach the sales assistant, who seems unfazed from the commotion.
We start talking about the movie, and she tells me that the shop is not the actual place where the movie was shot. I think she must have registered the surprise in my eyes, so she adds that it is indeed the inspiration for the bookshop in the movie.
Apparently, the set designer drew the set of the travel bookshop based on this one. She also tells me at the actual location was the Kurt Geiger shop two corners down the street, even though it is unrecognisable now.
I thank her, and I keep browsing; the bookshop has a really good selection, and a charm that explains why it was the inception behind some of the most central points of the movie.
So, I pass the young girl that is now reciting the monologue in Spanish, and make my way to the Kurt Geiger shop. It is indeed unrecognisable. But just a breath away is the infamous Portobello Market, so I make my way down the stalls and take in all the views that can be seen on the first scene of the movie.
Spending the day as a tourist in your own city; spending the night seeing the Hollywood version of the places you just were. Popcorn, duvet, couch, and a finger pointing at the screen: I was there today!

Love,

G

Oct28

Here: Unilever Series and Tino Sehgal’s human cloud in Tate Modern

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I am talking to a stranger; she tells me about the cities she nested in, the different houses she stayed in, different people she lived with. She asks me ‘where do I belong?’. Here.

Moments before, I was watching a group of people walking backwards towards the exit. They stopped, started chanting, and the lights on the ceiling followed their rhythm. Then the started running in circles, trying to find an invisible end goal. Here.

I took my coat off, put in on the floor and sat down for a second. I looked at them, I looked at how people reacted to them. The group is wearing normal clothes, and apart from one common characteristic, their worn-out trainers, they could not easily be singled out as part of the collective. You see, I am standing in the middle of the Turbine Hall in Tate Modern, observing Tino Sehgal‘s Unilever Series commission.

Unlike Tacita Dean’s analogue marvel, this piece is the first live work to take over the space, with a human cloud of participants whose movements, sounds, and conversations are the choreographed building blocks of the overall piece.

The work is constructed by the physical and vocal energy of the participants and visitors, and the invisible moments that bind them. The public is fearful, delighted, inquisitive, eager to participate, willing to create obstacles, move together, move away, stand still.
It is interesting to see their reactions, their distanced curiosity, the glances they throw at the group, making sure they don’t get caught looking.

However, it is also interesting to explore the feeling of absolute calmness when you give in to the whole process, when you stop resisting, and sit down, and watch; when you don’t flinch once someone comes to talk to you; once you don’t deal with the experience as a novelty act, but as just an experience that does not have to be defined.

Life does not have to be defined. Some times, it is enough to sit; not to participate, not to shun away. Just sit, and be. Here.

Love,

G

Oct27

The Magnificent Something in Time Out Magazine

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I press my nose on the bus window as I am struggling to see the entrance of the tube; I am trying to spot someone in a red uniform, or to see a red flag with Time Out on it; nothing.
I stick it out and don’t get off in this tube station, and as we are approaching London Bridge, I see the stand at the corner. I press the stop button in a woodpecker mode, and I burst out of the doors and into the street. The stand is empty.
‘Sorry mate‘, the man tells me, and points to the 5 massive empty sacks; ‘all gone‘. My lips part, but no sound comes out.

You see, four days before, I received an email from Time Out, saying that they would like to print my 5 favourite spots in the magazine; and you might think that this was the moment that I played it cool, and distanced, and totally blasé. Well, no, of course I didn’t!

I had been reading Time Out since I first came to London. I would always bite the lid off my red pen, and circle all the exhibitions I wanted to go to, all the events I wanted to attend, all the movies I wanted to see. Yes, in the end I would not do half of my over-ambitious itinerary, but the pages held something much more than just listings: they showed London in all its diverse, rich, real, and magic aspects.

So, when they asked, I could not say yes fast enough; and here I was, looking at the vendor’s worried eyes as I stared at him with disbelief. ‘But…-’ I said, and well, there was not anywhere else this discussion could go.

I hurriedly thanked him for his time, and turned around. I thought to myself that I did not have to have a copy of it; it was there. It was in print. In Time Out. A smile started creeping in the corners of my lips, and I started walking towards Borough.

‘Umm, sorry, I just overheard you -there are a lot of copies still in Monument station, I just passed from there’, a lady told me in a hurry that just about allowed me to squeeze a ‘thank you’ before she was gone.

A power-walk later, and I reached Monument. The Time Out people were packing up, and a small flood of disappointment came back. I approached, asked them with a glimmer of hope, and as I was expecting them to repeat the ‘sorry mate’ routine, they reached for the last bag and take out a couple of copies.

After thanking them (repeatedly), I made my way back to Borough. I got a warm cinnamon roll and a hot cup of coffee, and I sat down in front of a bright pink table. With a huge grin, I started reading it; I did not jump to my piece. I would give this issue the same attention as every Time Out issue I had read.

Sure enough, I reached the page. I run my fingers over the column, and smiled like seeing an old friend. Seeing the blog in print meant so much to me in that moment, that I have to admit that for a second I welled up; but as I said, just for a second, that passed the moment a quick burst of giggles set in.

I sat there, and read and re-read it. It felt great.

Now, where is my red pen?

Love,

G

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Oct25

RetroARTive: a White Hole by Sarah Lucas with Rohan Wealleans

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It seems that I am always a step behind Sarah Lucas. It’s the wet footprints on the wooden floor that let me know that someone was in the house, barefoot, wondering around -then the footsteps end not on in front of a door or a window, but on a brick wall; she either passed through it, or just disappeared into thin air.

I always catch her work at the Situation gallery at the transition stage between old and new. I walk around the room as the new plans are drafted, the new work is coming in, the old work standing still before being moved out of sight, out of display. The air smells of change, of anticipation, of something that is not exhausted yet has to be revived.
The last time I went, I saw her collaboration with Rohan Wealleans. The space was very different from Rose Bush. The artist’s viewpoint of the same subject was very different as well. Lucas hints- Wealleans shows.
The wallpaper was different, as a layer of Wealleans’s pictures covered Lucas’s previous images with vaginas encrusted with patellidae; indeed, the whole room was adorned with hanging patellidae, giving it a truly beautiful, if a bit unsettling, underwater feeling. The references to genitalia, femininity, nature and the sea world were done by joining a social with an aesthetic commentary, making the crude beautiful, in a way that walked the line without stepping on either sides.

I am now outside of the gallery, looking at front door, wondering what is waiting for me inside. Time to follow the wet footsteps.

Love,

G

Oct22

Meeting Six Robots Named Paul

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A mechanical eye is looking at me; I stand still. My breathing changes, my chest rises, and I find myself looking back at the small device as its motorized gaze is tracing details of my face. It stops, looks at me straight in the eye for a second that lasts a bit more than that. Then, just like that, its gaze rushes back down, to a piece of paper where its lifeless hand doodles what it just saw with a biro pen, and I find myself letting out a breath I did not know I was holding in.
I have always been fascinated with portraits, with the ability to capture something more than the image; to catch a glimpse of what lies under the artist’s paint, what hides behind the sitter’s eyes, with the light and the pixels and the ink and the hand that held the brush or clicked on the shutter, how much of it was translated on the portrait, how much of it is projected by the viewer.
And here I am, sitting in front of Paul, one of the 6 robots in the NEO Bankside gallery. Paul is the robotic alter ego of Patrick Tresset, the child between his artistic streak and his IT skills. The space has a quirkiness that is both unsettling and inviting; on the walls, Paul’s work is hanging in rows, covering the white surfaces with glimpses of faces he has seen in the past week. There are 5 desks, each equipped with a Paul on it. The sitter sits on a chair, and after signalling that he is ready, the Pauls get into action.
The result is a sensory symphony: the sounds of the biros digging in the paper, the mechanical movement as Paul turns his gaze from the sitter to his work, the sight of 5 desks drawing by themselves a subject that stands with a steely, yet unsure pose.
The portraits were booked solid throughout the week, but thankfully the 6th Paul worked on a drop-in basis. Left in the corner while his siblings were scribbling away, he looked like the younger, more sensitive brother of a futuristic family.
I went 20 minutes before the gallery opened to ensure a seat in front of him. Inside, a woman wearing a strange costume had her portrait done by the 5 Pauls as a part of an art project. She was wearing a mask covered with doll heads. This day is getting curiouser and curiouser.
The door opened, I walked in, sat down, and looked straight ahead. I did not expect to be self-aware in front of Paul, yet when he woke up from his electronic slumber and looked at me in a quizzical manner, I found myself tensing up. It is interesting how we react when we feel observed; even from the mechanical eye.
30 minutes later, Paul was scribbling his signature. I could not believe what was in front of me. You see, in my opinion, his work, my portrait contained something more than a depiction; it contains a moment. It has an element of me as a sitter, but also of how Paul saw me. I looked at Paul, and I found myself frowning, as if I wanted to say something, unsure what is was and who would I say it to.

I caught up with Patrick Tresset, who explained to me that this project was born when he saw his passion for drawing fading away; he then turned to his IT background to seek creativity from a traditionally non-creative outlet. He created a software that would draw in the same style he did, and Paul was born.

I take my portrait, go out, and realising that I forgot my umbrella, I cover it with my coat. I look back, and a woman in now sitting in the drop-in station, as his hand is scribbling furiously on the paper.

‘Goodbye Paul’, I say, and then walk out on the rain, feeling the drops on my skin waking me up from a dream of the future.

Love,

G

 

Oct19

Found Art Found: John Stezaker’s Deutsche Borse Photography Prize

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I am in Costa, and Claire Maguire‘s Sword and Shield in playing on the speakers In the top left corner. ‘And we don’t speak, so we’re left in constant silence’. I reach over to grab my notebook, and as I take it out of my bag, it flips open, and the Deutsche Borse photography Prize brochure falls on the floor. ‘I’m not afraid, of danger in the dark’. I flip it open, and as I take my first sip of the scorching hot hazelnut latte, I realise I am squinting, trying to remember a constant thought that run through me when I was in the exhibition. ‘You have the shield, I’ll take the sword’. I hope John Stezaker wins, I whisper, and I open a new safari tab to google who won the award.

The Deutsche Borse Photography Prize rewards a living photographer for a body of work that made a significant contribution to European photography within the period of a year. The photographers this year were Pieter Hugo from South Africa, Rinko Kawauchi from Japan, Christopher Williams from the United States, and John Stezaker from the United Kingdom.

You see, I had a soft spot for John Stezaker‘s work from the first moment I saw it. I was absent-mindedly leafing through a magazine, when I stumbled on one of his pictures. I stopped on the page, my eyes focusing on the page, my fingers touching the surface as if I was expecting it to have a different texture. His work has a genuinely remarkable power that is hard to explain. It almost seems that his effortless technique is a result of a pair of scissors, a tube of glue and a bunch of photocopies. But come a step closer; look again; look at the precision, the method, the combination, the duality, the thought behind it.

Of course, Stezaker had stiff competition for the award. Pieter Hugo‘s work had a visceral quality to it, a strength that was communicated by the steely determination in his subjects’ eyes and the destruct that they had to cause in their physical landscape. He took pictures of the dumping grounds for technological and industrial waste on the outskirts of Ghana, and portraits of the young slum-dwellers that survive through the processing and burning of the discarded material.

Rinko Kawauchi on the other hand examined the mundane through a lens that transforms it into extraordinary. She explored themes of life, death, and everything in between with a soft palette and a range of editing techniques.

Christopher Williams showcased images of objects like cameras, models, vehicles and other technical apparatus with a clear reference to the advertising world, and an overarching theme of photography as a form of reality.

So, why was I supporting Stezaker? First of all, I found the idea that a person that has not taken a single of the pictures he is exhibiting but still is considered for a photography award extremely interesting. You also know my love for found art, and the depiction of dualities through different mediums; and that is exactly what he is doing: he conveys a new meaning by reconstructing the picture. He is redefining its purpose instead of creating it. He toys around with form, format and the definition of art.

A few seconds later I see the article announcing the winner. Stezaker got the prize. I take another gulp of my (still hot) latte, and put the brochure back in my notebook. Found art won. Art can be found anywhere; in the everyday, in the moment, in the extraordinary that is disguised like a second in time. Just cut, paste, and create it.

Love,

G

Oct17

The Hmmm Moment of Damien Hirst

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Have you ever had a ‘hmmm‘ moment? Hand rubbing chin, frown set between brows, heavy inhale followed by hurried exhale, absolutely unsure of what your opinion is on something, yet aware that you should have one; that kind of hmmm moment.

You see, that was my initial reaction to the Damien Hirst retrospective at Tate Modern. I was facing the open mouth of a shark, his sharp teeth an impossible breath away, his eyes reflecting my puzzled look; I was standing in front of the shark piece that ensured notoriety for the artist who is regularly compared to marmite; you either love him or hate him.
However, just then it felt like I lost my sense of taste, as I could not decide if I loved or hated it. Hmmm.

The exhibition was on at the same time Kusama was on, and separated by a floor and a million lightyears of artistic approach, I was (unfairly) comparing the two. Kusama is one of my favourite artists for the things she embeds in what she creates, the thought that goes into the action, the dedication that goes into her practice. This was not something that I could readily feel in the pastel green rooms of the Hirst collection. It did not help that the first room had his spot paintings, that even though was approached with the same precision that Kusama exhibited in her spots, this approach was more scientific (complete uniformity in size, equal distance between them, every spot a different colour) and more, well, obvious. Hmmm.

However, a few steps forward and I came across ‘A thousand Years 1990‘, and I stood in front of it, with a determined fascination. A full life cycle was played out in front of the voyeuristic crowd (a perspex box contains maggots that turn into flies, and fly around an insect-o-cutor, with some getting killed and others living through it), and it immediately ignited my pre-existing interest for the meeting point of art and science. From the stark contrast of the mediums (a clear geometric box containing messy organic matter), to the right of the human over life and death.

I found some of his work impressive, but on a technical level: his work with embalmed animals, the most famous I guess being the shark in The Impossibility of Death in The Mind of Someone Living, but also the sheep from Away From the Flock, and it’s counter part, The Black Sheep; the Pharmacy and Trinity-Pharmacology, Physiology and Pathology displays, where he replicates the environment of a pharmacy in the gallery setting (Still and Doubt were similar, yet more powerful); and the Spin Paintings, that even though are truly impressive (and were seen in the Olympics as well), seemed to me to remain in the technical level.

However the point where I started warming up to his art was Dead Ends Died Out, Examined. Cigarette butts were lined along the shelves of a cabinet that came as a precursor to his use of museological display techniques. From the life cycle of a single cigarette to its effects to the life cycle of the smoker, and the value of the object as an exhibit, the work had something threaded through it that resonated with me.

In the same line of thought, I found Lullaby (a meticulously arranged wall of pills) and Judgment Day (a meticulously arranged wall of diamonds) equally interesting and mystifying.

I also liked the butterfly works: In In and Out of Love-White Paintings and Live Butterflies, white canvases embedded with pupae were hung in a specially maintained humid environment; slowly, the butterflies hatch, and fly away from the paintings and around the room, where they are fed on sugar water, fruit and flowers, mate and lay eggs. You then come out of that and walk into the somber In and Out of Love-Butterfly Paintings and Ashtrays, where dead butterflies are stuck on patterned paintings, in a room with scattered ashtrays. The duality of life and death as well as beauty and horror are just experienced in the most visceral and disconcerting way, and I remember needing a second to establish what kind of awe I was experiencing: admiration or disgust. A similar mosaic of butterflies can be seen through a spiritual filter in the Doorways in the kingdom of Heaven, Sympathy in White Major-Absolution II and I am become Death, Shatterer of Worlds. It is interesting to see how he combined these paintings with his Anatomy of an Angel sculpture, where an angel is carved from white marble, one side perfect, the other stripped to show the anatomical parts of a human.

I went around through the whole exhibition, and I still had not made up my mind.

I walked past The Incomplete Truth, a white dove trapped in mid-flight, in a moment in time, in formaldehyde, in a room, in between life and death, in between love and hate, in a hmmm moment that you can not really sway on either sides, polar opposites that are closer to each other than they are to their middle.

And I am content to remain in that hmmm moment; because i don’t know if I like it or dislike it. An opinion is not necessary to take away something.

Love,

G