Folio 9e408ace
Italiano
The monaci’s tauola on the altar, the slow red bleeding across the ceiling, and the fading species in the summation—each is a work that must be made complete before it is undone: the paint laid down by the monk’s hand to last no longer than devotion, the light’s red caught by my eye only until the copper cools, the species fixed in ink only until the next observation shifts it—all three are offerings to the moment of disappearance, where the act of making and the certainty of loss are the same breath, the same stroke, the same red that stains but does not stay.
English
The monk’s panel on the altar, the slow red bleeding across the ceiling, and the fading species in the summation—each is a work that must be made complete before it is undone: the paint laid down by the monk’s hand to last no longer than devotion, the light’s red caught by my eye only until the copper cools, the species fixed in ink only until the next observation shifts it—all three are offerings to the moment of disappearance, where the act of making and the certainty of loss are the same breath, the same stroke, the same red that stains but does not stay.
