There is a particular fascination with just diary snapshots. Unpretty, a little bleak, although not necessarily so: the bleakness is incidental, by the by. Unlovable. Just, . Nothing special. But the passion of them. The swell of life, quite unrelated to their -- what? Just not that; this.
Often it's the light that is poor, often it's the fisheye effect, which I always dislike, as grating to the senses and counterintuitive. But that these things just don't matter. So what is it that does?
This.
Tiens, je pense au percept de Deleuze en ce moment. La lande de Hardy, etc. Quelque chose qui aide à approcher, en ce moment.
No comments:
Post a Comment