Lucio Fontana (Italian, 1899-1968), Concetto spaziale, attesa, 1968. Waterpaint on canvas, 100 x 81 cm.

To fall in love is to individualize someone by the signs he bears or emits. It is to become sensitive to these signs, to undergo an apprenticeship to them (thus the slow individualization of Albertine in the group of young girls). It may be that friendship is nourished on observation and conversation, but love is born from and nourished on silent interpretation. The beloved appears as a sign, a ‘soul’; the beloved expresses a possible world unknown to us, implying, enveloping, imprisoning a world that must be deciphered, that is, interpreted. What is involved, here, is a plurality of worlds; the pluralism of love does not concern only the multiplicity of loved beings, but the multiplicity of souls or worlds in each of them. To love is to try to explicate, to develop these unknown worlds that remain enveloped within the beloved.

Gilles Deleuze, Proust and Signs

Behind the skin. Encylcopedia Brittanica Films. Introduction To Biology. 1952.

Blue segment, 1921 by Wassily Kandinsky

What would it be like, I wondered, to live with that heightened sensitivity to the lives given for ours? To consider the tree in the Kleenex, the algae in the toothpaste, the oaks in the floor, the grapes in the wine; to follow back the thread of life in everything and pay it respect? Once you start, it’s hard to stop, and you begin to feel yourself awash in gifts.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and The Teachings of Plants

André Kertész (1894-1985), Melancholic Tulip, 1939

Vasily Kandinsky, “Black Lines (Schwarze Linien)” (December 1913)

At the same time, I sense my life passing as if it were the life of another person [...] As my life passes, I may begin to suspect that I am not what I believe. I am a being who is asleep, a being with no consciousness of himself [...] My functions—my thoughts, feelings and movements—work without direction [...] I live in my own narrow, limited world commanded by associations from all my subjective impressions. This is a prison to which I always return—my prison.

George Gurdjieff, The Reality of Being

The Color of Pomegranates (1969) dir. Sergei Parajanov