{"id":1863,"date":"2011-06-24T05:00:25","date_gmt":"2011-06-24T12:00:25","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.hondartzafraga.com\/blog\/?p=1863"},"modified":"2011-06-24T06:34:22","modified_gmt":"2011-06-24T13:34:22","slug":"inhospitable","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.hondartzafraga.com\/2011\/06\/24\/inhospitable\/","title":{"rendered":"Inhospitable"},"content":{"rendered":"
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. <\/p>\n
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. <\/p>\n