A minute of

Cannot name that color: looks like wet white, an ivory with shadow or grayish that we used to call ‘pigeon dirty’. Painting of a horse head in ochre tonalities suited very well, especially with engine strokes so beautifully placed above the horse’s mane. Dark wooden frame bounds like it borders something very important. But the head was turned sideways, it listened carefully but didn’t have the guts to look around. Even the picture! Next to it, a playful aquarelle of Bruges, centered around innocent afternoon and lazy clouds. Water pretends to be still, but cannot hide the reflection of reddish bricks, red like cheeks of girl on the first date. This one stood tall, a painting bought as a remembrance of one hopeful day. In the next corner, 45 degrees further hanged a tapestry, old and out-worn, last twitch of the hand that wants to forget tradition and robust lines of family roots. And there was our floor lamp, high and dignified crown of an early spring tulip. This fragile light-keeper claps its metal cold hands in the curled handshake – even it’s lifeless and heavy body  prays for a minute of contempt, minute of sound and minute of everything else we didn’t manage to achieve in the empty room of our lives.

Maja S. Todorovic


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