I spent most of yesterday afternoon working at my desk, in my room on the roof. I do have a room on the roof, no kidding. The desk sits right beneath a big window. The first time I raised my head to stare at the sky it opens on to, it was a glorious blue. The next time I looked up, it was a dull opaque grey. The difference was so striking - as if somebody had taken a brush and applied a thick coat of grey paint across the heavenly wall.
When I first learnt that words laden with tangibility - fabric, wall, and so on - can be applied to space, it was hard to conceive. But over the years, over countless moments of staring at the sky or the distances that separate us, it does not seem so inconceivable any more. Space is indeed so tangible.
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That is an elegant observation, perhaps even profound when one considers that, since Einstein, most physicists regard space and time to be as one.
One might argue that art is nothing but soiling the intangible with the grit of tangibility.
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