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KAREN HIRAKAWA |
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Andre and Isabel A boy and his tiny sister who has clear amber eyes, unlike the boy whose clear eyes are earthen brown; this clarity is accentuated by a gripping clamp of a knot in the stomachs of these two who play with dogs in the dust, happily, as if they don't feel it. And those who smile pass with those who scowl. They won't allow the consideration of the maddening gnaw and churn of acrid juices as they roll clutching elbows and knees that audibly click on themselves, while under brown bellies soft pink balloons continue to grow taut and turn ashy colored. Much like the dust they romp in with those inexhaustible dogs. The only things that are clear about this boy and his sister are those eyes; other than these, they are blurred ideas of children, but no less dear, no less lovely.
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