Observations on a bowl of fruit (anonymous)
There are curves and no right angles. Each covered with tiny imperfections, they have rubbed up against reality of the physical world, and they have transformed themselves into small miracles of survival. What gives them their specific shapes is unclear, but it probably involves a process that’s been underway for years. Some are almost completely round, others only partly so. They look like a funny cast of characters indeed. There is the angry one, with its dents and its scratches. The surface of the shy one is slightly fuzzy. A calm serenity surrounds the confident one, who might also be the oldest one.
Names come to mind, somehow, although remain disconnected from any clear reference or story. I’m almost disappointed to find them at a moment when they’re behaving themselves, peacefully co- existing. But the traces of a recent disruption are lingering, and another is surely not too far away. Nothing sits still, as the lights and the shadows endlessly push the colors around, the reds getting redder for a second, but then becoming pinker again. At times, they glisten, as if absorbed into a William Carlos Williams world of short-lived balance and harmony. A moment later, they look a bit more lazy and dull. And so on and so forth.