Snap-shot

A minuscule cocoon clings wearily to the underside of a colossal leaf. The chilled breeze sways it slowly, systematically pulling the silk shafts that suspend it. Its dull, dry skin flakes and peels, as a deteriorated roof and chimney groan with the strain. As it settles from the passing breeze, the sunlight bounces off a tiny round disc. A single window, golden in the sun, projects itself from the grey cocoon.

Inside, a stale, cavernous space muffles the needle of light penetrating from outside. The ceiling arches overhead, ultimately engulfing itself in a lofty haze. There is furniture here; a worn leather chair, a twisted coffee table, a minute bronze gramophone and a speckled easel beside the window. Bright paints, spilt over the floor give the impression that colour is leaking through the window. Scraggy brushes and tiny glass bottles of murky water wait silently for an unseen artist. Cluttering the gaping walls are hundreds of meticulously conceived oil paintings. They are hammered haphazardly, despite their uniform size, and densely smother the dark walls. Each painting depicts an idealized impression of the view through the window. Though no sunlight passes through them, their radiant beauty seems to echo that of the shallow light entering the single window. The cocoon creaks softly, and a distant whoosh suggests the cold breeze returning once more. Everything is still however. The faint noise is the only indication of change.