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I ask myself the questions I ask first thing each morning and last thing each night. Then I wonder if he’s well and if he’s enjoying his life greatly or to some extent or at all. And then I stop this gradation of life, this slotting of emotions into pockets. Once my morning meal is over, I go and wash in the small bathroom that is never bright and never warm.

Snow piles halfway up the thick little windowpane in winter and pigeons squat there, blocking and unblocking the light with their comings and goings all year round. My beard sprouts in all directions and for those few months I can imagine that I might have been born here, might be one of these people and not an interloper from somewhere beyond the Black Sea.

strangely similar – minimalist yes, the landscapes harsh, the narrative confessional but revelatory –It provided me with a way back in, a fresh vantage point.

A few years later I was off on my journeys again, but the beauty and lyricism of Mac Kenna’s writing has remained with me since….soberly beckons me home.

I pause and then play the chosen piece through twice, before carefully replacing my violin in its case and putting the sheet music back in its ordered spot.

Beyond the window, in the cemetery, young boys are throwing snowballs, dodging behind the headstones, squatting in the shelter of small crosses before launching their next attack on each other.

The photographer is Man Ray, the glass is by Marcel Duchamp. Their voices come faintly across the ledgered lines of memorials, some as dour as those they commemorate; some sporting bowed ribbons for the season of the living; a few splashed with the petals of winter flowers.Two young girls in very short skirts and skimpy tops stand at the gate of the cemetery watching until the boys, in a show of bluster, turn their icy fire on them and drive them laughing through the gates of death and back onto the living street.is David Campany’s speculative history of the last century, and a visual journey through some of its unlikeliest imagery.Let’s suppose the modern era begins in October of 1922. Inevitable and unruly, dust is the enemy of the modern order, its repressed other, its nemesis. The connections range far and wide, from aerial reconnaisance and the American dustbowl to Mussolini’s final car journey and the wars in Iraq.

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