Time Just Passing By

Time Just Passing By


As I watched some flowers in my garden last spring, I noticed two well known shapes, having the rays of the sun retaining the yellow tint of them. The light is still there, suspended, waiting for the next spring. The shapes however, moved on my sketch pad first, to be transferred than in a mirror on the linden surface.

The time is just passing by and I have to cut on the surface, line by line and shadow by shadow, their story. Not to mention then, that the shadow on the linden block is not growing steadily large, as does in the sunlight every ordinary one. Those ones will remain, fixed on the surface by the edges of the piece of wood as in a warm wood cage, with the time just running through my fingers but with me capturing it in a firm cutted shape.

I can barely hear my pair of hands working on the surface. Every movement is part of that big unbelievable silence, and I know that the tactile sense is awake, being ready to fill and count every cloud in case of an unexpected or unpredicted flight through other texture. As sensitive as they are, these pair of hands seems to be mine; two entities trapped in a symmetrical body, dreaming to switch on the other side of the symmetry line, for good. No wonder that such movement cannot be as easy as it may have appeared to be.

Many of my prints depict the garden, the imaginary island, the ark or the solitary hills I was never able to conquer. However, a single one depicts a pair of hands lying between my flower’s green leaves, blossoming each spring together with the meekly light.

Ortansa Moraru