A rainy, contemplative Sunday through a south-facing window in Ridgewood.
With so much stillness we create stories of movement, where this temporarily seized energy has dire potential for release. The slick streets are covered in the memories of commuting rubber. Illuminated veils gently conceal the hints of our neighbors’ lives. The sky is brightly polluted by the neighborhood’s collection of street lights. Perhaps the nearby once-bustling Myrtle Ave, now silenced at this hour, is making its residual contributions to the light captured by the clouds.
The fiery glow from within the scene is coming from an aptly volcano-embellished lava lamp. Its warmth is starkly contrasted by the cold white street lights outside, seemingly amplified by all of the wet, reflective surfaces. The dual glass window panes reflect the light, resulting in an offset portrait of me. You can even see the reflection of the lava lamp in my eyeglasses. A hanging prism contains the light of the lava lamp that sits underneath it.
