Nothing  of Nothing

The four sides of the photograph are equal. The photograph is a square — and this deepens its stillness and silence. From the outer square frame of the picture, I move inward to another frame; a square with a slight curve. And from there, to the circular frame of the glass. The transition from the flat square to the depth of the washing machine’s cubic drum through the intermediary of glass becomes impossible. So I remain on this surface — in this state of frame-within-frame. I stay suspended between the frame of the photograph's display and the glass frame of the wash. What does this display do with that wash? And what does the act of washing itself suggest? There’s a military belt and a piece of lace fabric. The belt seems to have come from war, and the fabric — who knows — maybe from a wedding, or a house window. Is a memory about to be washed away? A memory of war, a memory of celebration, or a memory of home? What is the relationship between these memories? Within this circular wash, I don't know if the belt is trying to encircle the lace, or if the lace wants to become the trembling veil of the belt. The photograph breaks the fluid motion of washing — and the flood of memories flowing with it. Instead of becoming dizzy in the fast spin of the cycle, I’m left stunned in the still silence of the image. The photograph is in color — but it’s not colorful. That faint, dirty green doesn’t color the image. Even the blacks and whites are diluted. Is this photograph a display of washing, or the washing of a display? I search for the meaning of the photograph in its fleeting bubbles.