I found this photograph yesterday. It is a photograph of a French artist called Yves Klein who was born in 1928 and died in 1962. It made such an impression on me because it reminded me of a recurring dream I used to have. Actually, it was more lucid. I imagined myself hurtling through a large window, the glass shattering with a clear sound with the impact of my body. Powdery glittering fragments suspended in the air and everything; everything, bright colours, books, wood, reflected exquisitely clearly in the broken shards of glass hanging frozen around me. I am grey and muted, but the reflections are clear and brilliant. As I am typing this, I realise that this may appear to be related to death and suicide. It is not. I think it is only a highly visualised desire for freedom that I was feeling at the time. And not exactly freedom. Flight. Freedom from the constant pull of the Earth, a little respite from the all the people and their thoughts and the burden of their wants and dreams.
The person riding a bicycle away from us, oblivious to this act. Did he just happen to go by or was he meant to be a part of the photograph?
I love the curve of his body, the way his legs arch. One gets the feeling that he will never fall down. He must stay like that, in the midst of his leap, for us. For us to feel free. And I remember that he is in Paris, he is hanging there in a different light. Softer, golden and light brown. Green trees. Bright French green. The smells of smoke and flowers and food rising around him. All within that photograph, even if we can’t sense it. Captured and trapped in it.
I am awed by it.