Tag Archives: art

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

Nov13

The Semi-Naked Truth of John Palatinus: People from the Village

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I have always been fascinated with the distinction between artistic, erotic, and pornographic. The fine lines between the forms (if there are any lines at all) are tested by a lot of artists, some times to provoke, other times to test, and in some instances, well, just because it happened.

I remember the first time I saw a picture of a naked man. I was in that stage between not too young and not old enough, and its source was so unexpected that I remember surprise overtaking every other single feeling.
It was in a magazine. I remember going to the newsstand, and seeing the corner of a cover hidden behind a pile of other magazines on the top shelf. Now, you have to believe me, I really did not know why these magazines were on the top shelf, why they were covered in plastic, or why parts of them had small stickers blocking parts of the cover picture. I just read ‘great competition’ on the cover, and as I was going through the stage of collecting everything, I grabbed it, went to the counter, and even though I thought it was strange that the cashier asked me twice if I knew what I was buying, I accepted his offer for a black bag and went home.

I remember going in the living room, taking the magazine out of the bag and out of its plastic case, and opening it. The feature it was in started with a guy wearing a flannel shirt, black trousers and boots. His hair was curly and his face long. It seemed like every shot magically took one piece of clothing off him, so, when I turned the page, there he was, naked. I had never seen a picture of a naked man before. It was so strange. He was so …different. His penis was the strangest, weirdest thing I had seen up until that moment; don’t get me wrong, growing up in Greece meant getting your fair share of nude sculptures in museums, naked lithographs in history books and if participating in sports, locker rooms with other naked men. But the fact that this was on a magazine made this experience totally different. It was not meant to be artistic; it was intended to be erotic-even though it ended being pornographic.

So being in Space Station 65 and standing in front of John Palatinus‘s naked portraits of men is making me think of these distinctions. Male sexual photography was defined, stigmatised, and redefined during the 1950s, and Palatinus was one of the key figures in this era.
During that period, photographers started taking portraits of handsome men with built bodies, that as time passed they started losing items of clothing. The images were printed in magazines like Tomorrow’s Man, or mailed directly to customers in the pretence of admiring the male physique. However, when full-frontal pictures started emerging, the authorities stepped in and arrested various publishers, photographers, and models.

One of these photographers was John Palatinus. When the New York police department and the US Postage Inspectors raided his apartment, they confiscated all of his prints, photographs, original negatives, cameras, lights, and equipments. After a conviction of Conspiracy and a misdemeanour charge, Palatinus was disgraced, out of business, and most importantly robbed out of his whole back work.

Now, you might be reading this and thinking ‘well, what work? This was pornography!’. And that is where the fine line lies. Even though the pictures were sexually charged, they would be described as erotic instead of pornographic. They were admiring the male form instead of cheapening it. Palatinus got rid of the cheesy props and the cheap backdrops, and used white backgrounds, lights and shadow to highlight the topography of the male physique.

Countless of shoots have been informed from Palatinus’s work, and some have actually completely copied his style (giving him credit, of course). This is why archivist and curator of vintage physique photography, Alan Harmon, was extremely surprised when he after speaking with Palatinus, he discovered they not only lived close by, but would embark on a mission to retrieve a lot of his photography from various sources.

A large portion of his work has been recovered, and can be seen on the walls of Space Station 65. From the risqué to the explicit, it is the demure that seem to hide questions about sexuality, arousal, erotica and, well, art.

This made me think of the homoerotically charged imagery of Ambercrombie & Fitch, and the Men’s Health magazines that use simular poses and eventually claim to serve the same purpose: admire the male physique. The classic cover shot with a man looking down at his toned torso with a smile on his face is tinted with a hint of eroticism that can be found in that early male physique photography.

The camera might be digital now, but the light still captures the same questions, the same social mysteries, the same fine lines that make the edges of the pixels.

‘click’

Love,

G

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

Oct24

I’ll Be Your Sister: Sculpting Contradictions by Thomas Houseago at Hauser and Wirth

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Taking things out of proportion; magnifying them; exaggerating; why are you focusing so much on this? Don’t you think you are overreacting? Complicating things; simplifying them; it is not that simple; it always was.
It is all a matter of perspective. Experiences seem important to us, because they are most likely our experiences. We obsess because the things that make up our obsessions are things that we are obsessed about.
I sometimes overthink things; I am walking to the bus stop, and I suddenly become aware that I am biting the inside of my bottom lip, I am frowning, my eyes focus on a spot in the horizon that has not formed yet. I am thinking of 50 things at once, and there’s a common connection, a thread running through all of them, hiding under them, a complex concept in a simplified setting.

As I am standing in front of Thomas Houseago’s work at Hauser and Wirth, I can not help but draw all these paralells. You see, Houseago is a sculptor of contradiction. With an elaborate artistic language, his pieces are mysterious yet brutally straightforward. The surfaces have a seemingly unfinished surface that is done in a sophisticated manner.

His monumental figures, relief wall panels and abstract, columnar lamps are scattered around the two gallery spaces, creating a feeling of being in a different world altogether. It is all about perspective.

His works have equal parts of a menacing and a welcoming nature, a type of eerie and ethereal glow that reminded me of a moment in Prometheus, that split second where the world hang at a balance between the Creator and David.

Houseago doesn’t hide what others would regard imperfections; instead, he exposes the structural components. The artist’s movements remain as handprints, trails on the sculpture’s surface, on the giant’s muscles, on the person’s life.

Houseago’s panels look unrefined and fractured to the point of deconstruction, and this is where their beauty lies. The unrefined; the fractured; the importance of the gigantic structure because of the perspective, the exaggeration of what looks simple but is not.

And like Houseago, we are all sculptors of contradictions; sculptors of perspective, sculpting the everyday with what we are given. Events are your material, the day is your sculpture.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oct15

Pink Origami Spaceship Travels: Space Day at Drink Shop Do

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A pink spaceship is traveling across the room, astronauts are hanging on a string, and a fleet of rocket rests between a sign that reads ‘Up to the Highest Heights‘ and an arrow that points to the toilets, downstairs on the left.
No, I am not in a David Lynch movie. I am in Drink Shop Do, one of the few cafes in London that will make your whole body gooey, your wallet empty, and your belly full of yumminess.
You see, last week I was writing about Jiggling Atoms and life in the molecular level, so I thought it would be a good idea to see the other side of the spectrum; from the minuscule nature of the atom, to the enormity of space.

Drink Shop Do was the perfect setting for that. This multicoloured universe hosted a space day organised by Science London, catering to the varied clientelle that popped in: you could indulge your inner nerd by participating in a rocket building workshop with Dr Simon Foster from Imperial College, or catching up with some of the brightest minds in the field in a session with Kate Gray, Louisa Preston, Marek Kukula and Alex Salam.
Alternatively, if you are more in the crafts category, you would be sitting in the cafe, building origami spaceships, googling interesting space facts on your iPhone and writing them on the back of an astronaut you just drew for the space facts competition.
With a range of space-inspired songs in the playlist (that included Aerosmith’s ‘I don’t want to miss a thing‘), I took comfort in the delicious cake and coffee that were on the table, took pictures, wandered around the store, and learned that space is not just a place where no one can hear you scream (sorry, this reference had to be made).
Unfortunately I had to leave in a rush, but after making a (long) list of the things I want to buy from the shop on the ground floor, I knew that I would be here again soon.

One to beam down, Scotty.

Love,

G

Oct11

RetroARTive: Sarah Lucas Rose Bush

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I remember reading a piece about déjà-vu; if memory serves me right, it said that it is a chemical imbalance on the amygdala, the almond-shaped part of the brain that processes emotions and feelings as they are taking place. Apparently, that momentary lapse creates a memory from the present, generating the confusion that comes with remembering the now.
However, as I was standing in the familiar setting of the Situation, part of the Sadie Coles Gallery, I realised that the feeling I was re-experiencing was generated from what is similar but not same. A few months ago, I visited the space for the
Make Love Exhibition, and wrote the RetroARTive piece on it that drew me back to this space the second time. I wanted to see what occupied the space. I was pleasantly surprised.
It turned out that the gallery is in fact dedicated to Lucas‘s work until the end of 2012, and is following an organic flow of evolution that is curated by the artist herself. Historical and new pieces by Lucas and occasionally other artists occupy the space, and transform it into the artistic puzzle that is Lucas’s mind.
The wallpaper was the same but different, with an added layer building up and tearing down the previous image. Two big hooker Boots were in a podium in the middle of the room, lit by a single red bulb. Toilet bowls were carefully placed around the gallery, in the same spot that the concrete blocks and chairs were two months ago, giving the impression of a transformation. Indeed, the creature that was living on the ironing board before now moved to the main room, wrapped around a gun, pointing aimlessly at the wall.
I absolutely loved the main statue of presence and absence, the female shapeless form, breasts made of two light bulbs, and the pelvis, previously a tin now replaced by enamel.
Lucas’s work stayed true to the Make Love spirit, and added a layer on it.
And as I am posting this, I am wondering how the space is now. Only time will tell.

Love,

G

Oct9

Edvard

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A couple is standing in front of me, blocking the view to the painting. They are holding hands, their ears are covered with the guided tour headphones, and their heads are tilted to the left. A few seconds later, they simultaneously straighten up and move to the next painting, stare at it, and listen to the voice that gives them information on what is hung in front of them.
I am in the Edvard Munch exhibition in Tate Modern. Each painting seems to be a piece of a puzzle; the final picture is the artist himself. The writing on the wall tells me that Munch was a troubled man, who drew from his spiritual unrest and personal anxieties to define his own subjective vision.

It seems as if the canvas is a temporary release of his obsessions, a way to figure out events, things, life. He seems to come back to certain events (the death of his young sister from tuberculosis at The Sick Child when he was thirteen) and themes (The Weeping Woman is depicted in various forms, each more unsettling than the other). For some reason I had to catch my breath when I stumbled on the Uninvited Guests series, where Munch recreates a fight that troubled him. It was not the realism in the picture; it was the clear intention to find the truth by recreating a subjective memory, an attempt that no matter how much effort he would put into it would always be unsuccessful.

I also really linked his exploration of vision. In 1930, he suffered a haemorrhage in his right eye. Munch did not see this as a disaster; he saw it as an opportunity. This injury allowed him to experience the word in a new way, and instead of fearing it, he explored it. In addition to that, he explored the shifting boundaries between visible and invisible, material and immaterial, through double exposures in his photography and drawing apparitions in his paintings.

Indeed, I found his use of photography fascinating: he doesn’t depict; he documents. He uses it to scrutinise himself, his life, his world. He is taking pictures of his exhibition,but it is not to record the paintings-in fact, the paintings are not props-they are individuals (when he takes a picture of himself with them it often resembles a group portrait instead of an artist’s shot).

He also seems to delve on his experience of ageing, emotional turmoil, sickness and bodily decay. In fact, in the last rooms, a series of self portraits (including the last one he ever drew) shows a heartbreakingly humane vulnerability that is touched me to my core.

His paintings are not defined from the external world; the are shaped from the internal state, the filter that dictates how the world is perceived. He is not drawing the world; he is drawing his world.

A canvas as a reflection, a painting as a mirror, a depiction of reality instead of realism. Baring your heart on paper, on brush strokes, on film, on the light of the day and the darkness of the night. The artist becoming art, becoming one with the work in the frame.

The couple moved to the next room; I wonder what the voice is telling them. I wonder what they see.

Love,

G