On Not Seeing

The photograph won’t let me move forward and place my foot beyond these grimy, fogged-up glass panes. It says stay and look. I can’t. The traces of my fingers trying to open a view become dark, tangled lines on the middle frame of this wall. Shining spots of light, stubborn and persistent, pass through the remnants of the clear glass and dazzle the eye—fixing it on the darkness. There is no escape from the inevitability of murkiness and ambiguity. The power of this impurity outweighs the brightness of the glass and the city remains barren in my eyes. The scene ends before it even begins. The photograph is about not knowing. About not seeing. The blue-framed windows in the photo frame end and close off all paths to viewing. I think this time the referential function of the photograph turns inward, not outward. Its signification points toward me, not the other.

I feel trapped within this narrow frame. I suspect there is only one way left. I want to take my eyes off this window and look behind me. But the photograph doesn’t let me.