He spoke about dead birds, I remembered birds interested him back then as well, in Bezalel. See, those are birds that people don’t usually put inside their freezer, long winged, magnificent, fragile. He told me about the freezer, the cooler where a dead bird is each time carried into the club he photographs in, waiting for the right, crucial moment.
I was immediately sorry I hadn’t thought of it myself, that I hadn’t stolen him from life, into my story.
Someone could not woke someone up from its fainting, from its death; that’s almost indecent and yet I believe him; I believe this quest for beauty in all places that supposed to be covered with dirt.
“This is me and my brother”, he said to me simply when describing the relationship between the young man and the bird; two non-identical twins who rolled out to the farthest edges: man and bird, live and dead; and suddenly the layers I’ve counted faded into dust.
Ugly Lovely is a description to define something that might repel at first but then become beautiful.