an offset view

Optical trick
either way you look at it.
The mirror's an illusion reinforcing, while reflecting, the divide.
What is morality? What is admonition?
Prose, what is it?
This is not for male, too.
Demand beauty from women - punish their beauty.
Punch their beauty.
Play cruel tricks, create illusions. Man, men!
Enthral the audience to see into the limits of the convex.
Colonize.
Deceive. Trick. A Game of Cards. It is the game of cards, not the woman reflecting.
This is not hinting. Embody the rules, punish the effort.

You play the doll this time.

Stop fucking warning me! Your turn. STOP FUCKING WARNING ME!

Riffing with Bhanu Kapil's Blog

Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi, Bhanu, was he?
Did you find the answer?

Mirrors. Reflecting. Ambiguous ambiguity. Contradictory, perhaps. Meaning, what?
Truth or honesty? Is truth trust? Illusion or illustrious? Beauty, vanity, self-reflection, self-centeredness?

Swallows’ shadows.

Mute.

Mirrors are not the only reflecting objects.

Giovanni Boccaccio's 1361–1362 treatise De Mulieribus Claris…

This, this!, is an illustration of an…
European? Indian? American?…
artist using reflection to paint self-portrait.

Bodegones literarios.

Humanism >> respect for the artistic profession rose >> the artists' identity >> Where is the mirror? What is the mirror? >> Erase. Imply. Impart. Present. >> Where is the gaze? >> Pull the reader into deeper questions. >> What does it mean to read someone? What does it mean to read someone inverted?

The power of shaping the gaze. Isn’t it? (Is power the right word?)

Trevor Makinson’s In My Studio Mirror.

Bhanu, was Massachusetts your mirror, or the Punjabis? Or, was it the Quebec diaspora? What was your studio mirror?
The Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror by Girolamo Francesco Maria Mazzola also known as Francesco Mazzola also known as Parmigianino, or by John Ashbery? Ummmmmm, then are we the double portrait? Can we play be The Arnolfini Marriage. Are we? Are we?

Truth Present, a Mirror to the World.

This is a Danse Macabre, a blog macabre.

Death and the Maiden are dead. Young men, seized by a kind of death by submerging into gazing at the woman while constructing an idea of beauty, are dying to tell her and reflecting on her.

I belong to you, Bhanu, like Ben belongs to Humphrey.