Totality. Nothing more than the place and the word. The land, it is white of marble dust mixed, exile on a Roman ship, queen of the jews, she was jewish. He was gentile. There’s no need to cry, it’s still there. We can piece together the image from the scattered pieces of the jigsaw.
And if it’s a love story, it’s not for him, or for her. For example, I don’t talk about her.
False face. False relation. A real person is separated from the interpreter of that person, if only by the time passed between the event and its evocation, by a distance that continually increases, a distance that is increasing at this very moment. The sea that drives. She, queen of the jews, returned there. Repudiated. Like a female INRI. Such a moment cannot be rejuvenated by dazzling colors, it can only be evoked in memory. The greatness of art only emerges at the dusk of life.