Sometimes we see tables, and people eating, inside or out.
Sometimes we see clothes, pots, watches, or pastries, waiting for their new home.
Sometimes we see someone else, their life, their story, their home.
Sometimes we see bright light. Sometimes we see darkness.
Sometimes we see one side of the glass. Sometimes we see both.
Sometimes we see ourselves.
A window is a portal and a mirror in one, inviting yet impassable, transparent yet reflective.
These pandemic years have been a window that I carry everywhere with me. A clear view of my past, a queer reflection of my current self, and a foggy portal to the uncertain future.
During my time in Switzerland and Italy, in addition to the stunning landscapes, I found myself being drawn to windows. At first I didn’t make much of it, and enjoyed the scenes passively. But I quickly felt a strengthening urge to try something more introspective, so I entertained it.
Some windows offered stunning mountain vistas. Some reflected myself, my fiancé, or even other families. One provided a glimpse into an Italian restauranteur’s life. One made me feel like I was flying. One made me think of a close friend.
Another one might have given a viewer a glimpse of my life. But from my side, I only saw my reflection. I saw mountains on my shoulders, the light quickly fading, a long night arriving. I didn’t really know how to share through the glass what was in my head. So I simply walked out to the edge of the cliff, threw my arms up into the brisk alpine air, and pretended that was all. And suddenly, just like that, it was all. I saw Tung through the glass, taking the photo for me, and the joy all came back. Because we were there together.
Shortly after, we sat down for dinner and looked into another window. This time, we saw ourselves, smiling, laughing. There was nowhere we’d rather be. The mountains were still there in the background, but they didn’t look imposing anymore, only beautiful.
So, what about you? Oh, don’t worry – just picture yourself sitting at that table, sipping tea with someone special, looking out through the window at that amazing view of the Matterho– but wait – what if you look to the window and you see something else?
Maybe you’ll see a bit of yourself?
Above all else, I want to thank Dave Odisho for the constant inspiration these last several years. Dave has helped me grow increasingly aware of my surroundings, and not only their beauty but also their significance to me. I find myself observing ephemeral moments of light and shadow, reflections, and sometimes even things that seem a bit bizarre, and understanding why I’m being drawn to them – and then sharing them without any explanation.
So, thanks Dave. I often see a bit of you in my windows.
And, of course, thanks to Louis Chan for all the inspiration and planning help.
