There is life in the darkness. The white of an eye, the down of a feather moving imperceptibly in a breath on an angel’s wing, the linen shirt slipping a shoulder, bone beneath the skin, the reach of fingers in the slatted light. A sacred moment of perception. No sunny unveiling, no gilded clouds descending with imaginary plump putti blowing trumpets among ribbons of blue and pink, but the sorrowing dark, a stone floor, time’s graffiti scratched down paintwork. And black.
The color of ending defining each figure so that the shadows devour the crimson velvet, the careful braids twisted with so much hope in her hair, the gentle greyhound, the edge of the photograph. Suddenly we are in his studio. Rome. One high window slices light through a grill. “Reach for the light as if it could save you. Cage your hands to catch goldfinch light as it hovers and swoops toward you. Support her—she is your Magdalene—she is broken.” The artist stoops over the lens and sees life, and then catches it.
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createdAt:Thu, 15 Jun 2017 18:44:40 +0000