These are still frames which, to say the least, surely don't account to rightful photographs. But they hold, I daresay, some wistfulness in their stolid calm. Though being taken from a recorded motion, i.e. give or take the life itself, they seem not to mind appearing awkward or a touch forced. The sense of their artificiality isn't long in coming if to think of it: a human, a book, and earth. On top of which, order. There is a presence of composition which by and large is hardly noticeable in the vehement flow of conditions and events, but grows central when a person becomes part of still life.
The chosen artifacts, not leaving alone the person, are clichéd and prosaic, but as soon as some of them can breathe or sway in the wind, you can't help but think whether they are captured breathing in or out, swinging right or left. If, for instance, everything here is taking its breath, then the whole picture lives by tense anticipation. Moreover, the intensity of that is rather distinct to create the impression of a frame swelling under the breath's pressure. If, on the contrary, there is no air in the lungs of still figures, torturous thoughts about the next breath and the overwhelmingly heavy time, that you feel obliged to push forward to save the life, make the space full with a weak tinkling of suspense.
The only shot seems to be devoid even of a possibility of equilibrium. It is placed in time but lasts less than a moment. It is the bygone embodied in the present and breaking the future every second your look is skimming over the surface of the picture. The surroundings keep motionless pending the next moment that will never come. Thus, say, the distance that forbids the outwardly inevitable touch acquires tints of the infinite:
The same as the frames are nothing more than haphazard moments taken out of the course, the musings are irrational, entangled, and only occasionally palpable, like the twists of the sleeper's dream destined to be recalled the next morning... or the sleepless night.