Friday, 16 August 2013

the story

she was standing there, naked. she wouldn't look at me, but concentrate on the flowers. she had tulips, almost dead, their petals scattered all around. she also had lilies of the valley, and we would look at them for hours (their shadows would climb on the wall, trembling delicately in that filtered light, and to us it seemed as if we could almost see and touch their souls, while they were dissipating into that late spring afternoon). 

she would keep covering herself with her arms, she would hide behind them, she would wrap them around her belly, as she was not happy and not free inside her body. yet she didn't say no to me, when i took the photos, she just stood there, in the hazy light, playing with the petals. when the curtain suddenly fluttered and one petal fell on the ground, unexpectedly, she startled - it seemed to me that i could almost touch her soul, touch what made her to be herself, that wonder, that mystery (it was, of course, an illusion, no one can touch another soul, not even when the light-filled curtains are lulling us into believing we might be exempt from this rule, we might just be allowed a moment of grace, because we are special, because no one has ever loved and desired as we have).


old window, yet the light in the curtains is still the same