Przypuszczam, że wątpię.
In the Light of the Passage
A narrow colonnade bathed in late afternoon sunlight. Arched ceilings echo centuries past, while the warm light spills onto the stone floor in sharp, poetic angles. Inside the shadows, a group of people gathers — some talking, others simply present. One figure, dressed in white, sits in solitude where the light gently settles, as if caught in a moment of quiet revelation.
This is not just a study of light and architecture — it's a fleeting tableau of everyday intimacy. A visual meditation on human presence. One could say: “Res sacra miser. In luctum.” — The unfortunate is sacred. In mourning.
Even the ordinary bears the weight of something sacred.
In the Light of the Passage
A narrow colonnade bathed in late afternoon sunlight. Arched ceilings echo centuries past, while the warm light spills onto the stone floor in sharp, poetic angles. Inside the shadows, a group of people gathers — some talking, others simply present. One figure, dressed in white, sits in solitude where the light gently settles, as if caught in a moment of quiet revelation.
This is not just a study of light and architecture — it's a fleeting tableau of everyday intimacy. A visual meditation on human presence. One could say: “Res sacra miser. In luctum.” — The unfortunate is sacred. In mourning.
Even the ordinary bears the weight of something sacred.