Women daydreaming out of the window, claustrophobic from the inside, seen from outside: captured, stagnant and unwillingly resignated. They don’t stick their heads in the sand. No, not them. I have seen those women. They are aching. Seeking a beyond, something to hold on to, something that ignites life in them and pushes them forward, inward. They are gasping for air.
The transparency separates them from the outside. From the land of projection, of opportunity. It depends on them how thick the glass is. Their faces pressed against the firm container, the comfort zone. They are aware of the inner malfunctions of the household, the family, their lives. There is a reason why heads turn toward the horizon of a window, a frame, a new form.
Nothing appears in a dark corner of a room. The face above the windowsill speaks its truth. Looking at them from the outside, nothing remains hidden, everything stands exposed and lies evaporate. Their body might be inside of the room, but their mind floats outside the four walls and freedom may take hours. Those are the moments they connect with living organisms and not plain old objects.
Love suffocates amongst the fibres of a weighty carpet. Roll me out of here. Women at the windowsills don’t beg. They release the anchor and give their visions a way. Outside everything moves, life can be heard and listened to, the colours change and through the wind the world never stops to smell.
Window women are dreamers. They suffer and know love. Their memories projected upon the glass. Mirrored back at their faces. The sunlight hits. The storm metamorphoses. Women looking out, gazing into invisible worlds, are not unseen, they are a silent orchestra in the waves of the air, the shape of a cloud, and least of all, they bury their heads in the sand.
Croque-Melpomene 