Breaking Out

You forget how voraciously young children consume time, in this case aided by process and bureaucracy. A firm resolve to go home after breakfast was interminably thwarted by documentation not being quite ready, or Mum not being quite ready or technology not being quite ready or baby not being quite ready, chasing one another around in an ouroborosian cycle with no clear exit point

The nice part is that no-one minded; no-one got heated; no-one felt let-down or defeated or diminished. Time is the gift we all were able to give; such small recompense for what we have received

Somewhere in the middle of all this, MrsM and I found ourselves in a gallery that was mounting an exhibition we did not know existed. A wrench from personal practical minutiae into visual conceps and commentary on social injustice

I'm not sure how much we were able to shift our focus so abruptly, but one thing I picked up on was the artist reacting to the social constraints within which black people - women in particular - are forced to live by having the figures in her paintings overspilling, breaking out of, the frames within which they were bound, and out of the plane of the picture - intruding into the space of the viewer. Pushing back against the framing

I'm sure clever photographers must do the same thing; I've never thought about it in that way. Here is a moment too big to be held in a frame. The first time in open air, the first summer rain, the first (or is it second?) journey, and tonight the first night at home. The chain eventually broke and the page is turned