The life and times of The Antonino Museum (in English), and articles on art and beauty
From facebook, with shame. Who do I thank? Minh, I think.
I cannot remember the last time I was so moved by a portrait. For the first time, a photographer has succeeded in creating an image as moving as a painting. It is absolute perfection. The minor character, in terms of position, height and area, is immense, and the main character, gaze so intently fixed outside the frame, outside our comprehension, looking at death in mariage or war, for it's hard to tell what sex the person has, pales into the background. I presume it's a female for the similarity of dress, but cannot be sure. Perhaps a young boy?
But it's the mothers' eyes and face that wipe the floor: possession and absence, devotion and "me", love, fatalism, surrender. This is Abraham relinquishing the flesh of her flesh to the gods of ages, to barbarity, to life other and away from the infant lips that gnawed her paps. This is her blood, sucked away and splattered on the slaughter-stone of life, and she knows, stupid yet understanding, absolutely her, a rock: beautiful, a husk, diamond in a dung heap, an accident of existence through a mzungu lens, mesmerizing in her silent eloquence.