[su_quote]There is a library, waiting to be touched, everywhere. Fragments of novellas, scraps of equations, or the last and first syllables of poems, sometimes in unread languages that still await their dictionaries, their grammar. They come filtered by light, pixels and electricity, on odd street corners, in vestibules and annexes, in puddles of water and the ascent of staircases. To read them is to understand that photography is also a form of epigraphy.[/su_quote]
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
A moving sunset. Quite literally. Also, no filter.
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
Sunday afternoon at grandma’s.
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
Motel thunderbird. Room 22. Marfa.
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
A photo posted by Monica Narula (@monixa) on
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