surreal windows

Laurence Demaison


reveries and memories at the open window

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer's men were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning—fresh as if issued to children on a beach.
What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, "Musing among the vegetables?"—was that it?—"I prefer men to cauliflowers"—was that it? He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace—Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished—how strange it was!—a few sayings like this about cabbages.

Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway 



from In Time's Rift

This was read:
"Infinity, come in!"

How would it be possible,
since the finite piles up?

I look at a window,
square of sky.

You, dear, are still
my dwelling.

Ernst Meister, In Time's Rift, pg. 71,
tr. Graham Foust & Samuel Frederick

Gelesen dies:
“Unendlichkeit, tritt ein!”

Wie wär es möglich,
da sich das Endliche türmt?

Ich schau auf ein Fenster,

Noch bist du, Liebes,
meine Wohnung.


winter painting

Max Beckmann, 1930


white window and blossoming tree


tree and curtains




All was still,
except for the curtains
which breathe with the light.

Michael Tweed, from the on-going Conversations with the Light



stillness and a glimpse of white

Rullakartiini 2006

Talvipuutarha 2006

Unlike his master Penti Kaskipuro, Riippa employs colour. However, what they share is the ambition for timelessness and the fondness for still lifes. Riippa seldom uses an object for a model; rather than aiming for detailed resemblance, he conveys the character of things.

Riippa Esa (Finnish, b.1947)



from ice windows to ice paintings

The artist Susan Kruse presenting her amazing works with the elements (rain, snow etc.):

"This picture shows the original inspiration for the ice pictures - the desire to capture somehow the beautiful frost patterns made on my shed-cum-studio windows

This is an image of the ice crystals taken inside the shed.

A couple of days ago I painted a blue square on the window,
you can see the ice crystals growing over it now.

And this is an ice painting. The crystals of ice make
patterns into the wet ink. Made outside at 6am this morning.

All the paintings made this morning.

this is where you can find her original post, on her blog, Welcome to my Brain 




Abandoned Room (Soviet Base, Szentkiralyszabadja, West Hungary, 2012)

Tamás Dezső


blue window

A pretty word, window.
Window: the wingbeat of the yellow butterfly.
Two carelessly painted wooden shutters open out,
clumsy blue window.
I jump in and out of you, ride you like a horse,
my foot dragging the ground.
Window on the open world, from where I saw
Anita, expecting, get married, Pedro Cisterna’s
mother urinating in the rain, from where I saw
my love arrive on a bicycle and say to my father:
I have only the best intentions regarding your daughter.
O wooden-latched window, child’s play for thieves,
peephole on my soul,
I look into my heart.

Window, by Adélia Prado