The Girl and the Window
The painting is by Salvador Dali, which is odd—I'm told—because it doesn't feature melting clocks or crazy surrealism. But in a way, more than "in a way", in actuality, it is just as surreal. When I look at the girl in the window, I put myself in the delicate position of stepping into her secretive world. Private, hidden, and absolutely fascinating. There are things of intrigue, perhaps a sailboat or cloud, and things of boredom, like the walls.
The girl is like me. Inquisitive as we are, and reserved. Bashful, perhaps. I can only imagine.
The girl is far away, and I feel myself distanced and put off, I am ignored in this moment. Maybe it is for the best.
I want her to see the street-lights as I see them, and dice as I do. Yet I want her to see them differently as well, and I want to see them as she sees them.
Waves are also fascinating, maybe she thinks about that. The shadows of the troughs and crests of each wave sliding away in a perfectly straight line. In the real world you can jump them on jet-skis, and it's fun. Or lay on a surfboard and coast to shore with the warm water.
The house is simple, boring. She stares out of the window, maybe longingly. I do not know.
She is like me in the way that she's bored. I imagine her so with no evidence but my convictions alone, falling somewhere between insane and brilliant. Bored with hearing of the weather and not the colors of the sky. Bored of the dulling glow of street-lights, accentuated brightly with magnifying glass so that the world itself is only bright. Fluorescence and brightness is not happiness, rather electrical manmade shallow light, pouring into every detail and washing over color until the world is the gray of the dreams of cities.
She would understand detail, and its importance to me. If I could talk to her.
She is already dead, painted inside a tomb by the sea. Yet she still breathes, the most surreal of all. Just her, a painting more beautiful and intricate than any streetlight, standing by the shore in a house. Staring out,