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The series is a conclusion of one period and a beginning of another.
In my childhood I and my father had this tradition of having walks at the dry river behind our street. While we were walking he used to teach me all the names of the flowers and trees we saw along the way, and then test me on what he told me in previous walks. We strode the muddy paths with the big chalk-rocks, and followed the seasons changing. First stone masons, then anemones. Once primroses and then saffrons. And always cypresses and pine trees. Different kinds of leaves, different kinds of acorns.
Since then, a highway was built on the river, my father passed away, and I remained at the same house four more years after he has gone. In the deserted places, the lonely places, where traces of mud or puddles remain, is where his eyes turn up in my mind. But nature is indifferent to life or death. It nibbles the asphalt and bursts out in the gaps between the bricks. When I look at it I sometimes also catch this indifference. I exaggerate the greys and invent new greens. The photograph is like the window's glass - I look through it to the outside and it also keeps the outside from coming in.
The painting depends on it but also moves further.
Noa Haruvi, 2005
Oil On Canvas
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