A circle. A maelstrom. A world of past, future, and the perennial is opened through the grace of the cardinal Bressonian gesture.
Hands open the glass window, to let the night in.
In the images' sequential grace, paradoxically, the referent does not subsume. Instead, the image itself—because it does let itself be subsumed by the referent—allows itself to be, and again paradoxically, allows it to become more than itself: presence.
In the silence, pages whisper. Flickers of Doré's…