Book Of Journals

I once read a quote about black and white photographs that said: ‘When someone photographs a subject in color, they are capturing their body. But, when someone photographs someone in black and white, they are capturing their soul.’ This time, I felt it. I saw it. Every single picture told a story that was so dramatic, so full of history. It was almost like looking into their lives. The clothing, the streets, even their stories were different. There was still something familiar, though. Something that made them all connect. I felt like an intruder. I was looking into a story I was not supposed to be a part of; into a time I was not supposed to know.

It was censored. I could feel it.

Tempting, but wrong.

My intrusion ended as I left the room.

I walked into a larger room. It was filled with some documents that smelled like archives, they felt like archives. Although, I did not even notice them. They were just texts that hid paintings. Stunning paintings. The technique, the blending of oils. They were professional. Sadly, these paintings were hiding. There. At plain sight. Above everything else. Hiding, nevertheless. They were ignored. People looked at them, but didn’t really look. Because they were hiding. One painting was not, though. I remember the guide, as she put emphasis on that one special painting. It didn’t strike me visually. Although, I could understand its importance. It was relevant.

But not hiding.

Who chooses, then?

Who chooses what is important? What is a priority? Is it the lady in texture, the painting that doesn’t hide? Or is it that? The beautiful but the censored? What is there but cannot really be seen? The hiding pictures.

The hiding pictures.

I could relate. Not to what was on them, but to the actual pictures. How could they be there, hiding? In the end, they were beautiful, but not for other people to watch. They were just there to hide. And in the end, that was the reason. For everything there. To hide.

And I was just there to intrude.