Nov 26 24
Just after dusk. A few stars becoming visible — likely not many more though, as the urban night’s light blocks them.
One particular star (or planet?) draws attention; not for brightness, but the reverse. It is dim, and intermittently obscured by a long feathery cloud.
The cloud is solitary. It makes us think of an opera glove reaching out from a dark balcony.
This grey stroke sits just above the featureless, black roofline of the neighboring building. The tiny light at the cloud’s center is currently very difficult to see. Now it disappears altogether — now ever so slightly returning.
We find the struggle to see the petite dot somehow satisfying — something to focus on. It reminds us of the process of discerning the dim edges within Ad Reinhardt’s black paintings.
This last thought causes another, one of a somewhat unwelcome and difficult nature: the ordeal of drawing joy from life as it sits.
Art has a boundary, the world has none.
A simple turn of the head and there’s just the All Else everywhere.
One particular star (or planet?) draws attention; not for brightness, but the reverse. It is dim, and intermittently obscured by a long feathery cloud.
The cloud is solitary. It makes us think of an opera glove reaching out from a dark balcony.
This grey stroke sits just above the featureless, black roofline of the neighboring building. The tiny light at the cloud’s center is currently very difficult to see. Now it disappears altogether — now ever so slightly returning.
We find the struggle to see the petite dot somehow satisfying — something to focus on. It reminds us of the process of discerning the dim edges within Ad Reinhardt’s black paintings.
This last thought causes another, one of a somewhat unwelcome and difficult nature: the ordeal of drawing joy from life as it sits.
Art has a boundary, the world has none.
A simple turn of the head and there’s just the All Else everywhere.