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Outside as seen from the inside, through some kind of lattice of thin horizontal blades within the thickness of the pane of glass, most certainly to protect from the glare of the setting sun, the art pieces hanged on the wall behind...

A photo to be posted, to conclude this series on the centre Georges Pompidou, but which one? A close-up or this wider view?

Two totally different literary reminiscences...
One out of the novel I'm reading right now, The Fall, by Albert Camus:
La vérité c'est comme la lumière, aveugle. Le mensonge, au contraire, est un beau crépuscule qui met chaque objet en valeur.
The other from some poetic work by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, where Benvenuto Cellini says to Michelangelo:
Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature,
That fashions all her works in high relief,
And that is sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth,
Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire;
Men, women, and all animals that breathe
Are statues, and not paintings. Even the plants,
The flowers, the fruits, the grasses, were first sculptured,
And colored later. Painting is a lie,
A shadow merely.


A day coming to an end, last summer, and another dire period of turmoil and (maybe?) change rattling my own existence...

Whatever, no comment about the fiery colors of twilight and sensibility of the digital captor...

Duality of perceptions...

Modern and contemporary art in the heart of the city (previous)

Lens distortion correction

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Additional Photos by Dominique Monrocq (dom_inik_m) Gold Star Critiquer/Gold Star Workshop Editor/Gold Note Writer [C: 215 W: 131 N: 469] (1717)
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