FEATURE
According to the law of Newton, conception is the first reaction to an action that sets in motion the chain of collisions that defines our lives. From there, our reactions to each subsequent action propel us like pinballs toward destiny’s next accident. Because for every action, Sir Isaac impatiently reminds us, there is an equal and opposite reaction; forces, like lovers, always come in pairs. It’s why for every grand gesture, there is a moment unsung. It’s why a shunned embrace couples every kiss, and why the brightest loves are balanced by boundless loss.
But these are realities of cynical intellects and regretful poets. For a long time, I defined love as a rare, but concrete entity, fixed in time and designation. It took the clear form of romance and attraction, coupledom and shared secrets. It was a tangible treasure hard to find but impossible to lose, assuming it were true love. Then true love appeared shabbily dressed in wilted flowers, tequila shots and car park sex. Next, it gilded itself in gardenia blossoms, politics and jellyfish before taking a clandestine trip to Mexico that began with chlorine and ended with debauchery. It has played Romeo, a classic Veronese peddling a seductive cocktail of dire straits, diga walks and whispers; a lyrical cavaliere on a motorcycle; and a green-eyed monster who consumed soggy tales and wine before making himself a fixed resident in life’s dark corners. At this point I began to measure love with logic and learned lessons, which led to a covert battle between unconditional comfort and unbridled ecstasy — and the confirmation that love as an absolute is an idea peddled to children, conformists, and zealots who believe in a god adept at absolving sin, if he is paid a suitable tithe.
Perhaps true love doesn’t exist. As Marcel Proust philosophized, it could be that love is simply forced upon a moment by our conviction that it is love and not anything else, by the immobility of our conception of it. Possibly it is as an artist once told me: love is passion and respect, and both are fleeting. Or maybe true love is like the picture of the tiger in the jungle. Or as Westerners call it, the picture of the tiger. Or as Easterners call it, the picture of the jungle. Just ask Sir Ken Robinson: One of the more remarkable things about humans is that even when we’re staring at the same picture, we rarely see the same thing. We are all merely reacting to the chain of collisions that caused us to look in the first place.
PUBLISHED IN INVENTORY MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHY BY ALESSANDRO ZUEK SIMONETTI
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FEATURE
According to the law of Newton, conception is the first reaction to an action that sets in motion the chain of collisions that defines our lives. From there, our reactions to each subsequent action propel us like pinballs toward destiny’s next accident. Because for every action, Sir Isaac impatiently reminds us, there is an equal and opposite reaction; forces, like lovers, always come in pairs. It’s why for every grand gesture, there is a moment unsung. It’s why a shunned embrace couples every kiss, and why the brightest loves are balanced by boundless loss.
But these are realities of cynical intellects and regretful poets. For a long time, I defined love as a rare, but concrete entity, fixed in time and designation. It took the clear form of romance and attraction, coupledom and shared secrets. It was a tangible treasure hard to find but impossible to lose, assuming it were true love. Then true love appeared shabbily dressed in wilted flowers, tequila shots and car park sex. Next, it gilded itself in gardenia blossoms, politics and jellyfish before taking a clandestine trip to Mexico that began with chlorine and ended with debauchery. It has played Romeo, a classic Veronese peddling a seductive cocktail of dire straits, diga walks and whispers; a lyrical cavaliere on a motorcycle; and a green-eyed monster who consumed soggy tales and wine before making himself a fixed resident in life’s dark corners. At this point I began to measure love with logic and learned lessons, which led to a covert battle between unconditional comfort and unbridled ecstasy — and the confirmation that love as an absolute is an idea peddled to children, conformists, and zealots who believe in a god adept at absolving sin, if he is paid a suitable tithe.
Perhaps true love doesn’t exist. As Marcel Proust philosophized, it could be that love is simply forced upon a moment by our conviction that it is love and not anything else, by the immobility of our conception of it. Possibly it is as an artist once told me: love is passion and respect, and both are fleeting. Or maybe true love is like the picture of the tiger in the jungle. Or as Westerners call it, the picture of the tiger. Or as Easterners call it, the picture of the jungle. Just ask Sir Ken Robinson: One of the more remarkable things about humans is that even when we’re staring at the same picture, we rarely see the same thing. We are all merely reacting to the chain of collisions that caused us to look in the first place.
PUBLISHED IN INVENTORY MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHY BY ALESSANDRO ZUEK SIMONETTI
view more
