pondering woman

Does everyone feel this way about hands? A prequel to the story, the illustrator of everything unseen. Embodying our very nature, does anyone else see this? I explored the Frieze Masters today, a sparkling white world beneath a sparkling white tent, sparkling wine in sparkling glasses and flowing clothes to die for. Actually, what really grasped at my throat was a world of wonder, things of beauty adorning temporary walls or glass cases. A pair of sculpted, dark life-sized hands intertwined at the fingertips balanced delicately upon a pillar. I sensed personality within them, unspoken words and expression. The kindling of the soul. Hands tend to be the most difficult part of the body to mimic, in early paintings they were often hidden. The sky’s a strange colour tonight, as if the electricity’s switched on but the bulb’s broken. An odd glow, the upside-down promise of morning before the onslaught of twilight. I suddenly remember ‘Pondering Woman’ by Schiele, an incredibly beautiful, ragged sketch I came across today. She exists more than the paper itself, who is to say anything is more real, of substance, than anything else? I don’t observe her as pondering. Perhaps the title was lost in translation. To me she is so very much in possession of her thought, whatever its weight may be. I adore the tuck of her blouse, those beautiful swirls and jagged curls of pencil that map an entire spirit. I wanted to document another artwork I saw, but within the photograph is a prominent outline of myself. The artist is Ming Smith, a woman I know nothing of except her photograph is stunning and seems to be a scene from night-time Detroit. A fleeting, black and white moment, blurred and forgotten, yet so utterly present in its disregard for any onlookers. The facade of a house, smudged like an afterthought, smokey figures in the forefront, a breathless, anonymous world that is so strangely enticing.