Enter Jan Makobely

How to describe these pictures? I’m not sure I can. Makobely’s mystery lies in his command of line: of that we can be sure. What lines they are! Like the dipping flight of a swift, the swooping neck of a swan, the sharp teeth of a threshing machine, the diamond scales of a large freshwater fish, the elegant shimmy of a practised ballerina, the comely underbelly of a fat summer cloud, the sleek shining rump of a racehorse, the majestic verticality of a lamppost, the ripples of water around a leaf in a pond in mid-October, the interrupted zebra stripes of a grand paino, the padded curves of a well-upholstered sofa in the lounge of a successful banker, the elbow of a foreign princess seen through the gauze of a… You get the picture?

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing. A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away. A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak. A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. And a time to read Chapter Five, Part One of my riveting memoir, Conversations with Speyer.

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