sometimes a painting names itself - deep color, reverberating, dark echoes, silence, stillness ...
something about this piece conjures memories of walking through back streets in medieval cities at night - parts of Seville or Barcelona - late at night - in the hours after music and before birds, with few people and even fewer vehicles - the serpentine of alleys fall silent as shadows come to life - faint footsteps, stiletto heals and flamenco boots, whispers, groans, a distant laugh or scream, scavengers, glowing embers of something smoking, ghostly aromas ...
that time of elixir when the past blends with modernity in silhouettes from yellow light of street lamps against hand-hewn stone, stains, and misted reflections - fading beyond retreat ...
when imaginings from a weary, half-dreaming brain become more real than the risks of wandering unknowns, alone ...
where mysteries of chiaroscuro were born from the thickness of history and faith is ever-present ...
oddly enough, a search on the title revealed another source of shared vision - an article by Steve Binderman:
“Echoes of Silence: A Phenomenological Study of the Creative Process” ...
