Her husband had a habit of collecting pictures and he could never throw anything away. Each one of these images had somehow found its own place in the interior. Everywhere she looked, she saw photographs, postcards, his drawings of women derived from gentlemen's magazines, small oil paintings, cut-outs from funny packages, landscapes from the calendars you get for free in restaurants, and on, and on. Some pictures were suspended or pinned on the walls while others were simply leaning against the jars of herbs and spices on the kitchen shelves or positioned in another altar type of way. Her first reaction was to try create some order in it. The second was to give up. The third: she became part of it. She started adding her own images. Now there was no space left to rest her eyes upon that didn't have some form of representation. Only when she visited modern art galleries she got thrown back into reality.

 

 

She lived in a house of images