This photo is so delicate, and frightening in the same time! It makes me think of a novel I translated recently, by the Romanian-Jewish writer Max Blecher, the novel ADVENTURES IN THE IMMEDIATE UNREALITY, one of the most beautiful ever written, but not really known outside Romania. The last chapter is about the death of Edda, the narrator's secret love. Here is a fragment, which makes me think of this photo: "She tried to look deep into my eyes, but had to close her eyelids, tired. Her hair was delimiting her yellow forehead like a wax block. I was again hermetically closed in Edda’s presence, in what she was now and in my delirious nights, during none of my wanderings and none of my meetings had I thought seriously of someone else except for myself, it was impossible for me to imagine a foreign interior pain, or simply someone else’s existence. The persons around me were just as decorative, ephemeral and material like any other object, like the houses, or the trees, only in front of Edda, for the first time in my life, did I feel that my question can evade, and, resonating with another profoundness and another form of existence, come back to me in enigmatic and troubling echoes. Who was Edda? What was Edda? I could see myself for the first time from the exterior, and, in her presence, these questions were the true meaning of my life. In the moment of her death did she shake me most profoundly and most authentically; her death was also my death, and in everything I did ever since and in everything I lived, was projected the immobility of my future death, cold and obscure, as I had seen on Edda’s face." Thank you for sharing your photography! Alina
This photo is so delicate, and frightening in the same time! It makes me think of a novel I translated recently, by the Romanian-Jewish writer Max Blecher, the novel ADVENTURES IN THE IMMEDIATE UNREALITY, one of the most beautiful ever written, but not really known outside Romania. The last chapter is about the death of Edda, the narrator's secret love. Here is a fragment, which makes me think of this photo:
ReplyDelete"She tried to look deep into my eyes, but had to close her eyelids, tired. Her hair was delimiting her yellow forehead like a wax block. I was again hermetically closed in Edda’s presence, in what she was now and in my delirious nights, during none of my wanderings and none of my meetings had I thought seriously of someone else except for myself, it was impossible for me to imagine a foreign interior pain, or simply someone else’s existence. The persons around me were just as decorative, ephemeral and material like any other object, like the houses, or the trees, only in front of Edda, for the first time in my life, did I feel that my question can evade, and, resonating with another profoundness and another form of existence, come back to me in enigmatic and troubling echoes.
Who was Edda? What was Edda? I could see myself for the first time from the exterior, and, in her presence, these questions were the true meaning of my life. In the moment of her death did she shake me most profoundly and most authentically; her death was also my death, and in everything I did ever since and in everything I lived, was projected the immobility of my future death, cold and obscure, as I had seen on Edda’s face."
Thank you for sharing your photography! Alina
Przepiękne.
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