A vase. Around the vase, two profiles. When you see them, you can’t unsee them and you train your eye to move back and forth: vase, faces. Vase. Faces. You try to hold them both in your gaze at once.
The question of how to define space--is it the place where things are? or the place where things are not?--surfaces and then fades.
In the morning, before sunrise, is the dark where I find my memories? Or are they in the crack of light from the kitchen? Are they in the sound of the train? Or in the silence after it passes?
The Japanese word is “ma”, the combination of the words “sun” and “door”. Each opens and calls you through it. You can’t tell if you are coming or going.
Musicians are taught to play the pauses, to consider the space between the notes as much a part of the song as the notes themselves. Billie Holiday, “In my solitude...you haunt me…” She is alone. She can never be alone.
A line, a pause, sometimes a breath.
He walks out of the room. The room empties.
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