A flower – shrivelled, bare of fragrance,
Forgotten on a page – I see,
And instantly my soul awakens,
Filled with an aimless reverie:
When did it bloom? the last spring? earlier?
How long? Where was it plucked? By whom?
By foreign hands? or by familiar?
And why put here, as in a tomb?
– Alexander Pushkin
Nope I haven’t gone soft. But Pushkin seems to have tripped out on flowers just like I did today. A couple of hours with the 100mm macro and these were born. I’ve wielded the mighty hand of Photoshop to bring out some emotion. I know, I know. But I’m not a journalist to portray things as they are. Heck, even journalists don’t give a hoot about the truth these days.
Think of it as art. Art has no real purpose but to be. It’s not meant to make you happy or sad. You can stare at it and look for a meaning and find what you want. But that’s just in your head really. Who knows what it really means.
So try not to bother why Monalisa smiled.