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THAT WHICH SATISFIES me most is a fine still life; to discern the the role they play these miniature stories of fate leave pleasurable impressions requiring scrutiny and prolonged curiosity. The unique consequence of a good still life is that it is a statement alone describing everything natural, in fact as an essay, poetry or prose. One finds everything simple, smaller and lesser, a horizontal line holds all movement, tops and bottoms represent the sky and then the horizon; surely this is realism enough to anyones imagination. Was that what I drank last night?

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Those who enter suddenly into the still life are likely to mingle as I do now. One thing setting off another: this appears to be my bias alone: everything admirable enough when it moves, bound by the superb cropping of photographer and designer. If this conveys well, to wipe my face of the perspiration while I contemplate until I become less bewildered, all objects turning my eyes, toward the comprehensible arrangement of objects in front of someone’s camera: a simple bowl of fruit.

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It is perilous to look at them as lesser compositions, and yet I feel obliged to meet the dare: at my impulse and at my temptation: turning my head away would be the equivalence of aesthetic bankruptcy. I confess this fact: are you able to see its captured moment, as an inhabitant to its universe, and each time something becomes more shapeless until I look back, to compare and contrast this conscious effort as all encompassing. Other art is instinctively worth valuing, with continued fortune I behold that I have switched to logic and reason; this scenario has landed, surrendering rights to any other sovereign domain that these still life sustain: some in color and others in black and white. Is this what I will drink tomorrow.

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