The supernatural does not require foggy graveyards; it is closer and far more mundane. It manifests in a midnight kitchen, a crowded yet silent subway car, or a house where silence moves between rooms like an uninvited guest.
Brassaï declares that the “bastard art of the streets of ill repute that does not even arouse our curiosity, so ephemeral that it is easily obliterated by bad weather or a coat of paint, nevertheless offers a criterion of worth. Its authority is absolute, overturning all the laboriously established canons of aesthetics”
“The lovely words ′human kindness′ have become so trivial […] and yet this should be the goal of our striving.”
Thoughts on light, color, painting, time passing, and the meaning of words from Robert Beck.
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