2024 March #013. The gallery’s hush envelops me, heightens senses; the grain of the floor against my shoes whispers tales of the many before me, who’ve sought solace amongst echoes of brushstrokes. Light befriends shadows in a silent dance, an interplay of what is seen and unseen, teaching the eye the virtue of patience, the mind the comfort of stillness.
This room speaks of history but lives in the present. Each image a portal, not just to another era but to different facets of the human experience. They hover in the margins as guides or ghosts, their permanence a counterpoint to my own transience. Am I observing, or am I part of some larger tapestry, a fleeting thought in the cosmos of creation?
Spaces like these – they are the inhale before the exclamation, the quiet that shapes the symphony. Just as the notes not played define a melody, these lingering moments frame the frenetic narrative of existence. Chiaroscuro not in art alone but life, the contrast defining the form, carving meaning out of its absence. Here is where the world quiets down, and in between the measured ticks of time, one finds the pathways to inward lands, waiting to be charted.
Rodeyo
