The heavy passing of time rests patiently on a flower, transforming it into a sundial. In such clocks, time is measured by light and shadow. In them, we learn, therefore, that any light, in its vocation to illuminate, to brighten, always casts a more or less long shadow. Perhaps this “geometry” of light and shadow is, in time, what we have most certain of.

In “HEADBOARD FLOWERS,” the resigned journey of the shadow crosses the white wall of a room with the rhythmic cadence of the dripping days. Time becomes perceptible. Here, indeed, there is a time accessible to the eye, a time that, between light and shadow, day and night, is glimpsed as if it were a play of wandering spectres, or diaphanous dreams. There are dreams in time, just as there will be memories in the shadows. And there is light: we do not forget the light that folds in shadows.