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I stand in my kitchen with a toasted sandwich and a cup of coffee in my hands. I stand dead still. While eating and drinking, I stare at the clock. The ticking of the clock suddenly downs on me. I hear the monotonously ticking clock counting down my seconds of life. Fascinated, I watch the movement of the hands of the clock.
Time, to me, has always been something wonderful. Time is elusive. Everything passes. If all clocks around the world were removed, time would not exist. The only thing that would then remind me of time is the movement of the sun’s shadow, day and night changes and the changing of the seasons. Oh yes, and another thing with the rise and disappearance of the moon.
Time is something magical to me. Things around me wear out and disappear. I will eventually disappear into the black hole[i] of oblivion.
My environment is changing and I only notice the change when there is a break in the trend. Or when it is too late to respond adequately to that change. The story of the boiled frog[ii].
Time and art is another curious relationship. Art changes over time. My ideas, how I should portray the world in changing time, depends on how I, as an artist, then perceive that world.
Einstein’s theory of general relativity says that as you travel faster, time will run relatively slower and slower.[iii]
Hawking took his theory of time a step further: according to the renowned cosmologist, before the Big Bang, which ushered in the creation…
