Light dances on sedentary objects, casting shadows along the inanimate. They are still, motionless. Yet in each phase of the day, they are an entity, beautiful in different lights. Slender in some, robust in others. Curves highlighted in the afternoon that were unnoticed in the morning. An awakening blush that slowly fades as darkness closes over the glass.
Apples in a bowl. Candles on a hearth. Glass bottles on a table. They move with the world, as we do. Watching us, whirl and grieve and conspire and celebrate. They watch love turn to smoke and pacts made over drinks in tall glasses.
People, day in, day out. We don’t see the change. As if they are still life, we don’t notice the soft creases around the eyes. We don’t see the silver hair mix with the dark, the flexibility wane. But these still lives, how they move. How they move us, these still lives are never still