And there are the chimneys, with their white smoke drifting upwards in slow motion. If the wind blows in the right direction the white column of smoke floats horizontally behind the small houses I can see from the studio. It is night and there is light in one of windows in the house at the edge of the hill. The image is blurry and the quality poor, but I know it is there, I can just make out the light changing. But even here and now, it feels that there is no time nor place. There is no language, no context. All is left is image. I look for synonyms and the words lead me back to the illusion. The house and the smoke are remote, forever unreachable there and then, as they were, as they are, even in the image. Something has been removed, stripped, separated and yet; in its reverberation it gains a new more ambiguous sense of meaning.
