Partisan non partisan. When the low sun casts naked branch shadows long on the street, the tender air congeals, what difference does it make where now is, whether it's too warm for winter in San Francisco or regularly too winter in Toronto, or autumn of 1958 imagined in 1975 in a row of houses built in the 30s, or the quiet after the war in a French villa. The poetic detaches, this brutal and clinical passion, to see in any face. Then, through the sheer of the line, this sharp edge of abstraction, brings zealous again you.
