Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:


oder über den Online-Buchhandel

Sometimes when we look at pictures (in museums, churches, on posters) we see ourselves. We too (the baby, you, I) are part of a picture, or everything that we are looks to us like a picture. On a small, accidental pilgrimage, high above the rich city, in the baroque basilica (as friendly and childish a church as any we have ever been in), we came upon a religious image decorated with multicolored shells: mother and child. Both are wearing large crowns. The baby’s is the larger one (considering his small head). Both wear their crowns as if they did not feel their weight. The baby is lying on transparent gauze, which the mother is carefully lifting with her fingertips in order to cover all of the naked baby’s body with it. But for what, we ask ourselves, this material can’t hide anything, everything would be as visible after being veiled as before. And yet nothing can stop this tender care. That is our picture.



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