侘寂 To love a thing whose demise you can foresee: a swallow flying through a windstorm, a teapot cracked. A lopsided house, stone roof off center, leftmost stilts sinking. Inside, a couple stacking bowls in downward-sloping cupboards, sleeping on an incline. They are not afraid the house will crumble. In its pitch, […]
Read MoreIN Summer 2015
