There is a complex sky.
The light is coming from behind me, its reflecting off an aeroplane in such a way that it looks like a comic or perhaps a 1950s commercial but the surroundings are touched by illumination in a different way.
Perhaps the light as illumination metaphor goes further than upon first glance; the light shows that which it falls upon for what it is - but it shows it so that we can see it, without strain or confusion.
Natural warmth resonates through the reddish bush surrounding the gravel ugliness that is an ill-maintained road. The road is unkempt, yet distinctive in its unnatural feel. It exudes man-made. The plane on the other hand feels as if it were made by some other entity, perhaps even more unnatural than ourselves... our future selves perhaps. For now it is high above us, beyond our reach.
The road rises up before the viewer, claustrophobic against the expansive sky - a sky which wants to dominate the scene but is forced into its own area by the business of men.
The plane banks forward and to the right, mimicking the clouds it stands against, mockingly gleaming against the natural subtlety of the sky.
I feel my smallness, as if the whole visual field is being sucked toward me, being ever increasingly compacted, until my own form emerges as the apex of the whole world. Or whatever the opposite of that is, for my point of being feels like the very antithesis of the pinnacle, and all around me is the majesty of size.
Romanticism wins: it is a scene out of North America. Pragmatism rejoins: its a day of sunny relief in a backwater overtaken by roads and rage in obsolete England.
Snapped back to the banality of life.
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