The still lives of the absolutely ordinary can be as fresh, alive—seeming—as they were decades or years before. Half-eaten or half-rotten, the transfixed moment of an instant’s attention is kept and returned to on colored paper now. It does not beg the beautiful nor the architectural nor the everlasting. There can be, though, a human richness in just stopping, in having stopped. Though I do not mean ‘richness’, really. A gleam, a blur, a dislodged peach pit spat out on an Italian plate. The other accoutrements of time are there, too, rendering it ‘actual’, and not made up. Even the bit of handwriting, little indecipherable scribbles, change . . . alter the picture pictured from the quaint (and throwaway) to the real (and possible). It is only the art of seeing with one’s own eyes that must be kept, while the rest will just disappear from the globe and all memory just a little bit sooner.