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Santa Prassede |
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written
by sunyuh / 10.03.2005 |
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Assignment |
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These churches are so still. Full of silence. Uncomfortable silences that carry whispers. I wonder about the confessions, and who has heard them. I just want someone to do something playfully obscene. A cartwheel or break out into a pop song. Not too often, or out of disrespect, but just enough so that the buildings’ mystery and echoes vanish. Too much of it creates dictators and demi-gods. Instead of the propaganda that carried through by the cut gold leaves. It’ll be a reminder of the human hands that built the walls, molded the stones, and the signature patron. Instead of the building silence that transform soft whispers into uneven tones that makes the visitor shiver.
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