Slow trek

May 29, 2011 § 1 Comment

“A man’s work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.”

Albert Camus

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The Architect’s medium

May 28, 2011 § Leave a comment

The architectural artist’s fundamental medium is not buildings, nor its forms and masses, but nor is it space, nor light, nor materials, nor any other of the thematic preoccupations of contemporary modernism. As simply as we can say that the plastic artist’s medium is imagery, and the writer’s medium is language, we can simply say that the architectural artist’s medium is activity. “Architecture is the masterly, correct and magnificent play of human interaction and movement,” to paraphrase Le Corbusier.

– Quoted from The Diagram of Everything

Rome, Italy | Spring, 2011

 

 

 

Hot blind earth

May 23, 2011 § Leave a comment

I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth.

William Faulkner

Spring, New York | USA

Los cerezos

May 23, 2011 § Leave a comment

Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos
(I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees)

Pablo Neruda


I exist

May 23, 2011 § Leave a comment

I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow. And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air. It moves.

Jean Paul Sartre

Hotel Regent, Rome | Italy

Burning wings

May 23, 2011 § Leave a comment

Few know this kind of dizzy glee:
an empty sky, a pair of burning wings.

Ouyang Jianghe

Reflexions Masterclass, Rome | Italy

Rookie error

May 10, 2011 § Leave a comment

Melbourne, en route to Rome.

Cold morning light, the beleaguered mid-Fall sun sliding its reluctant way into partial view. I watch my mother put on a brave face, hand raised (fingers splayed), after a sleepless night on the eve of yet another departure. I touch my fingers to the glass as the car pulls away from her, half conscious of the parody we make – her in the tightly wrapped bathrobe, me and my over stuffed bags.

Heart strings thrumming as I feel that strange regret. The one where the scene laid out before me loses its line of sight and I am left helplessly committing the heaviness, the poignancy to memory, empty-handed.

Cameras in the trunk.

Where Am I?

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