Mila Palm

I read that the brain joins forms separated by barely a few millimetres, as though it could not bear the idea of fracture. Mila Palm seems to resist that instinct. Her rooms and terraces distribute silence through half-open doors, planes of colour and motionless plants beneath the afternoon light. Bodies share the space, yet each remains within the private orbit of their own thoughts, at the exact distance that prevents contact. Perhaps loneliness consists precisely in this: sitting beside someone while colour patiently raises invisible walls between their hands.