The origin of every sort of history are the internal and external stimuli we happen to meet there outside or inside.

This morning I saw a painting sitting on a bench, abandoned and completely alone. The sun hasn’t still reached and touched it, because it was late and the sun wouldn’t reach this point at this time, since some buildings were stopping the warm sunlight to pass through. The painting was waiting for someone or something on that bench outside the museum and it seems like I was passing by at that very moment – not earlier, not later, in which no one else would pass by. Thus, seeing that angelical face from far away in a moment, in which I was the only observer, felt like a privilege to me and I’ve decided to take the painting with me and place it somewhere inside my personal space. It was a painting of Francisco de Zurbarán. 

Before placing it somewhere inside my space, I would walk with it around the streets and go to the supermarket to buy water. The cashier was curiously watching the angelical face on the painting and then at me. I would like to know what she was thinking, but in the end I have decided that maybe she was thinking about nothing.

I walked back to my personal space – one hand holding the painting, the other holding eight litres of water.

4 thoughts on “Origin

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