undisclosed trespass
The quiet sense of something lost
Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 78, 1850
The quiet sense of something lost
Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 78, 1850
A photograph is a universe of dots. The grain, the halide, the little silver things clumped in the emulsion.
Once you get inside a dot, you gain access to hidden information, you slide into the smallest event.
Don DeLillo, Underworld, 1997
Hope
Smiles from the threshold of the year to come,
Whispering 'it will be happier'...
Alfred Tennyson, The Foresters, 1892
It strikes me that the only way to know this place is through touch. To place myself inside it. Incorporate myself into its compressed landscape. To reside, for a while, within its shattered rooms. Its deserted chambers. To allow my arms and hands to become extensions of its oblique geometries. Gently plug holes and fissures with my own body. To feel it. Observe the impression left upon my skin by its obdurate contours. To bear its scars, clinging like kisses.
Richard Skelton, Landings, 2009