It is the door that always implies another side. A veritable time machine and shape-shifter, it works at a diagonal angle, dragging with it like a threaded needle its encounters to each moment it is encountered. It brings us away from the surface moment and shows us the shifts and rifts in the fabric of existence. When we are open to an image, the image strikes us, moves us as an other, pulling us toward it while we draw it near. To speak of a relationship between the image and ourselves in terms of spatiality may sound odd.
Images can wander, homeless, vagrant forms, outlines with little depth or feeling.
We are accustomed to believing that the image is an internal projection superimposed upon the world of brute reality. If space is measured in terms of extension, we cannot be moved by images, nor can we dwell near them, embrace them, touch them. They could not shelter, hold, and touch us. Such an image of the image imagines the image without world, world without image. Perhaps to imagine the image otherwise is not to will the image to be otherwise, but to allow it to be.