There was this sense of accomplishment, the idea of things going somewhere. That seems to have evaporated. There is darkness abound, the path ahead seems obscured, what is behind us is slowly looping back on us, molasses, hard to escape. We’re basically just remxing. There will be a house built. The future shrinking down to some dense, uniform mass. When trying to remember, I have difficult to connect my self now with the things that happened to me. That weird dis-associations that seems to split me into multiple paths taken or committed.

I personally don’t know where we are heading. The only thing that’s clear to me is that I intend to destroy, destroy everything that exists in painting. I have an utter contempt for painting. The only thing that interests me is the spirit itself, and I only use the customary artist’s tools – brushes, canvas, paints – in order to strike more precisely. The only reason I abide by the rules of pictorial art is because they’re essential for expressing what I feel, just as grammar is essential for expressing yourself.

— Jean Miro, 1992

After the studies had ended I feel kind of broken: It does not feel like something actually has happened, only time has passed.

Shadows, the ‘sign of true bodies’ as Hans Belting writes, of course saturate the photographic space: as much as with light, photographs are made with shadows, to such an extent, that William Fox Talbot, one of the pionneers of photography, hesitated between this name and skiagraphy, ‘shadow painting’.

— Jonathan Litell, Three Studies on Francis Bacon

A house must be built: People must gather, things have to come together, a sense of direction infused into many minds. The cruelty of the next morning. There was dancing.