The Real


'A painted scene does not unfold in time, is not a slice of a sequence. No part of this brothel – or whatever it may be – is more than a sixteenth of an inch deeper than any other part. No event depicted in it has its prelude or consequence. There is neither space nor time in a picture. That is why, in the small gap between the made-up and the real – a gap created by art for the purpose of joining the two in itself – there is a light that stands for both evening and morning, a smile that simultaneously anticipates and reminisces, a coin that induces and rewards, a table that is both a chasm and a bridge across it…'

From After the Death of the Goat God, a novel by © FStapleton

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