|
|
|
|
Let me take a picture of you, he said, she said, Ok
She walked, she smiled, she looked, she tripped,
There it was, the hidden effort, captured, wrapped in a robe,
Free for all to see
He laughed, she tried, she faked it.
Let me help you, he said, she said, What do I look like?
You look like a girl falling over in a robe in front of a duck.
He laughed, she tried, she faked it.
And ever so gently,
The wind kept blowing
The sun continued to set
The water kept being water
The trees kept being a trees
The grass remained to be grass
Nature continues on, and on, and on, and on, effortlessly
Whispering its truths in our ears, hoping they’re open to
Listen and learn, and discover, how to
Just be, Softer, on the outside.
Humans are very silly.
Even the ducks were a little embarrassed.
Georgina Kerr McDonald
|
|
At first glance, the scene conveys peace, an idyllic sunrise in a garden that could be anywhere. The horizontal light bathes the lawn and the water, the tones are neutral, natural, there is nothing that immediately catches the viewer's attention. The lawn looks freshly mowed and the lake reveals the concrete edge on which it rests, dry and white in the sun, revealing its artificiality. In the background, a mist blurs everything.
Everything is so perfect that we might think it is all a set-up. The woman in front confuses us. She seems to be falling, but from the position in which she has been photographed, one might think that she is bowing to the duck, which, upright, continues on its way looking at the camera, without even flinching.
Carla Ferrando
|
|
|
Since the day she fell,
when her creating palms
were skinned to the core,
so sudden, so deep,
she began to gaze onto the floor,
folding a crease through her brows,
maneuvring her heavy feet
along roots along pebbles,
while surrounding her,
flew by the colours of her world,
reflecting on her shoulders,
just silent, just unseen.
Tomorrow she will remember,
she was cushioned by green grass
and guarded by white birds
on the day she fell.
Géraldine Recker
|
|
|
Unlike Kerry James Marshall’s Invisible Man, they don't see it yet.
They don’t see what others do but they will.
Unified by the distinctly Hegelian view of the African.
Hopeful they will find pockets of calm, even joy, refuge from this arduous ascent to peace.
I miss that innocence.
Oblivious to the urban realm’s apathy which is palpable to the more seasoned.
To us it is sometimes all too infuriating. The allegory: all too real.
Their climb is in a way, prophetic.
The fall seems unpredictable, Daedalus: circumspect.
The invisible boys, invisible until they reach the top, until they reach the light.
Ewa Effiom
|
|
p
u
As we reach for our f r e e d o m we’ll inevitably finish the same fence.
behind
Should we be doomed, we hopefully choose our way to be so.
Is f r e e d o m a reality or simply an illusion given to us ?
It only depends on which side of the fence we are.
Might it be a utterance given to us, we only know when we give it to others.
It seems that feeling free is enough for us in thinking we are free.
Let’s reach for the other
side.
William Schindler
|
|
|
For a moment, I lock out the world.
The water envelops me. I feel light.
My heart is pounding, muffled sounds in my ears.
In this moment, I am only with myself.
I feel silence.
Not in the form of soundlessness, but silence deep within me.
I am alone with my thoughts. The future does not matter, the past does not move me.
I am present all at once.
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
William Blake.
Mareike Krautzig
|
|
A young woman, possibly a teenager, lying face-up on the street. She’s wearing a white cotton dress, her bare arms stretched to either side, supine on the asphalt. The street itself is flooded with water, half a foot deep, the woman near-enough submerged: feet bare, eyes closed, her dress both billowing and sticking to her opal skin. Her hands are floating on the surface of the water, catching the light of the late afternoon.
Rowland Bagnall
|
|
|
30°C in the living room. The louvers plunge the room into darkness and the hum of the fan disturbs the silence of this stifling afternoon. Eyelids are so heavy after lunch, everyone lets themselves go. After all, it's Sunday. But the children are confused, what can they do? They tried in vain to play, heavy and breathless, their hair already sticking to their temples. Suddenly a bang hits this collective torpor. Little Elisa leans out of the window. She rushes down the building, calling out to the other idles. A fire hydrant has been opened! Water gushes onto the smoking asphalt, spraying the burning cars and quickly flooding the street. The children jump, dive, drench themselves, shout. They are freed from their boredom and kept busy until the end of the day. The parents sigh and sink a little deeper into the sofa, as now they can really enjoy their nap.
Camille Paragon
|
|
The ordinary
This daily procession
This supposedly inevitable fate
The ordinary of common things
The common of the ordinary things
Plunges us into collective idleness
A moment of pause
A world that dares
To open the door
To the unprecedented
The playfulness of a throw of cardboard
Supports the intimate force
Of a body movement
The vitality
The hidden face
The weight of youth in disguise
At arm's length
Where is the extra in the ordinary?
The intensity of a customary walk
Straight and tired shoulders
Two personalities
Two souls Two intensities
A well-ironed trenchcoat
Two conditions intertwined
Blandness is a rumor
Platitude is an engine
Towards the extraordinary
Pierre-Alexis Réty
|
|
As dry earth, the road cracks beneath the sun’s thermal actions: “artificial“ and “natural” are words with a blurred meaning.
The sea is an extension of the city. It is not just a visual enlargement: one can imagine reaching the beach with the car and driving all the way to the ocean.
The city flourishes within nature’s wilderness alike nature grows into our built environment. The tree down the beach also rises next to the houses. And just like the palm struggles against the wind’s blow, so do the houses.
Are city and wilderness so opposing? Is there really any unequivocal limit between both?
Blanca Herrero & Nuño Zapata
|
|
Exif Image Size – 3,122 × 2,198
Resolution – 144 pixels/inch
JFIF Version – 1.01
File Type – JPEG
File Type Extension – jpg
MIME Type – image/jpeg
Current IPTC Digest – d41d8cd98f00b204e9800998ecf8427e
Exif Byte Order – Big-endian (Motorola, MM)
Encoding Process – Baseline DCT, Huffman coding
Bits Per Sample – 8
Color Components – 3
File Size – 1,171,719 bytes
Image Size – 3,122 × 2,198
Y Cb Cr Sub Sampling – YCbCr4:2:0 (2 2) Megapixels – 6.9
David Klemmer
|
|
Now the school bus is leaving in the wind and the snow...
Firmly stepping into the frozen ground, Black Riding Hood stands still amidst the washed-out buildings, lost in the infinite cold. Like them she’s here forever. Patient relic of a slow and determined use of time,
Use of life.
Now the school bus is stopping in the wind and the snow... Unmoved, Black Riding Hood waits for the lights to die and the doors to open, finally releasing sound and energy in her frozen world, in her frozen time. Only then will she move, disappearing, black on black, Into the night.
Guillaume Paturel
|
|
It is 3rd of January. Early afternoon. Only a few days after Novij god. Far in the North, where the daylight stops only for a few hours. It is cold, the background is fading. The family has returned to the big city. The daily routine has yet to continue.
Signe Veinberga
|
|
In winter time, the deities liked to envelop living creatures in thick, cotton-like fog -
Icy, aetherial volumes of water,
Reminders of human limits,
Of atmospheric fairylands where hardly anything speaks.
Observe these moments inert.
Silence and inertia have become invaluable lately.
Evgenia Vlachaki
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
