It’s these quiet moments that speak in the loudest voice. I was coming home from a local market, and passed this bicycle parked up against a dull gray wall. The lavender bundle tied to the bike’s frame reminded me of Millet’s The Gleaners.

I wanted a brief encounter, a passing glance, like something one might experience in a dream; one of those random exchanges between the thing and the witness that bears no real significance beyond the casual observation, but one which is, after the fact, redolent of another time. I guess this is where Millet steps into the frame.