The poetics of light.
There is that suspended moment, where we can see and be moved a beautiful or intriguing light.
Do we take the moment to notice it, sit with it?
Just like when as a kid, we take notice without judgment of the wind stroking the face, biting the fingers, rain drops on eyelid, asphalt smell in the heat, the dry flat toad on the road, beetles tracks on the sand, the poetry found in decay
It is most of the time fleeting, and hiding in mondane and random places.
What makes a light beautiful?Is it he way it hits the object/subject and the mood, the place? the tone?I do not know and I am not sure I want to so that I can remain suprised.
Its a bit like that fleeting moment of blowing a dandelion, we can just see it and not quite catch it and yet it can hold so much