Speaking of tradition, it is global, not local, because records are as old as wood and man.
Records made with anything, like a trace of a moment, or records made with tools and colors, as one's tendency to beautify the reality we live in: be it fence, spindle, pipe, furniture, or iconography.
God gave us wood to grow together, die together and last forever.
Dry wood smells of incense, and the Arhetip of the turpentine, oil, paint, rosin, tea and old lace.
Lamps smell of it all, spiced with the scent of vanilica biscuits served in Rosenthal cake trays, as well as the scent of coriander in exotic coffee blends for those who do not drink the Lipton tea at five.
They smell of drowsiness that specially, for some unknown reasons, layed earrings right in the shadow of the lampshade next to the lamp on the bedside table, or maybe the crocheted medallion on the red satin corners of starched white pillowcases of huge feather pillows on double beds.
It has been noticed that, after losing the bulb, lamps smell of loneliness for a long time. The moral: change the light bulb, so that the lamp does not smell of loneliness!
Why do I dream of cathedrals, when there are no lamps there!?
Belgrade, autumn 2005.