The streetlamp casts some light on the side of this sleepy house. Come in close. Look what someone's human hands did. Carved shape and pattern into the wood, counted, maybe, the number of slats, let air in, ensured circulation. Painted, too; more than once, from the looks of it.
If you want to touch, you have choices. You could start In between – negative space is still space – or touch the striated surface, where history wears itself like a little crown. Either way, you'll complete the gesture begun by the builder, illuminated in the night.
You may not stay very long. You may find the urge to wash your hands after. The paint might be a little tacky, not because it's wet but because it's summer and the night air is humid. But you'll have achieved something I think might be important. There's something real here and poignant, I think, something graceful and rough. Something that has mainly but not only to do with how and why we do all we can with our own two hands. Something about heart.
If you want to touch, you have choices. You could start In between – negative space is still space – or touch the striated surface, where history wears itself like a little crown. Either way, you'll complete the gesture begun by the builder, illuminated in the night.
You may not stay very long. You may find the urge to wash your hands after. The paint might be a little tacky, not because it's wet but because it's summer and the night air is humid. But you'll have achieved something I think might be important. There's something real here and poignant, I think, something graceful and rough. Something that has mainly but not only to do with how and why we do all we can with our own two hands. Something about heart.
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