There is a fine line between private, personal, hidden, and public, visible to all.
At first glance it might appear, even in its subtlety, to be a perceptible and evident boundary, dividing clearly separate spheres, but men and the things they produce are by nature ambiguous, complicated, and however much they flaunt certainty and definitive security, in reality they then shy away from these same clear-cut definitions.
And so this demarcation line is transformed from an insurmountable boundary into a necklace of points of contact, of passages that could connect what is visible with what is beneath the surface, hidden.
Even one could question the very existence of this limes to see it instead as an undefined zone in which the definitions of public and private blur into each other and vice versa.
Certainties shattered in the countless windows of a suburban building, in the clothes hung out to reveal intimacies that are always a little mysterious, whether they express the tranquillity of a house or allude to the precariousness of a homeless person; or in the peeling plaster that reveals the underlying structure by drawing a fictional map, as in the household goods of a homeless person that temporarily cover his privacy on the public street.
And always with that feeling of being glimpsed, of being perceived out of the corner of one’s eye, as befits barely hinted at and unfinished stories.
