Life is not – not now, not ever again – in black and white, but in the mornings, I love to see that keeping an overheadlight turned off can render shapes and forms in the reverse of their usual shades. This is not the darkness of desperation or anger, rather it is highlights and shadows, limbs and furniture, the sun not yet high enough to illuminate that patch of carpet on the floor where it will certainly hit at around 11 a.m. We are privy to an extraordinary view of the ordinary; a private show of which the cinematography is utterly unique.
We won’t be here to see the room in high definition with lights, camera and daytime action. That’s the convention of the working world which we must accept in order to imbue every mote of our free hours with creative brilliance. Instead, we found true vibrancy in the shadowy morning and evening light. This is the space we inhabit and treasure. save the holidays and weekends. But this is the space which we are prescribed. It is splendid.
So at 7 a.m., fingers look grey and light against the pale, watery blue. A shoulder takes on the affect of a predawn hillside. A profile silhouetted and dark against the lighter paint on the walls. There is a shadowy dance here, yet nothing amiss. This is the morning absence of light and sound. This is the morning before the world enlivens and tries to better understand some of it. This is the morning before the pause button on what is real is hit and the story suspended in shape and shade until the film begins to roll again.
“I didn’t need these things. I didn’t need them.”