I have noticed that the flatter an image is, the less it expresses, the more it will transform when it comes into contact with other images. At some point there must be transformation, or there is no art.
“It was blacker than olives the night I left. As I ran past the palaces, oddly joyful, it began to rain. What a notion it is, after all – these small shapes! I would get lost counting them. Who first thought of it? How did he describe it to the others? Out on the sea it is raining too. It beats on no one.”
Anne Carson | “Short Talk on Rain”