A house. A house surrounded by a white fence, lush trees and a small path leading to its white door. A woman leaning over a child, probably saying goodbye before he leaves for school. A borrowed setting, a found photograph. A tiny image removed from its original context, history or time.
And I can’t decide if I am too big or the house too small for me to visit. The landscape is either too small or too far to define myself in it. But If I look at it close enough, it becomes immense, greater than my own scale. And I am there somehow. I inhabit the image better than anything else, precisely because I can’t inhabit it.
