in a swirl of colour, a blur of movement
she comes and goes, the lights of the city behind, spare a thought, what is that light?
museums are closed. museums are still there for the people. city is people. city is light at night. city is stone reshaped. under a soft mantle of snow. and a myriad footsteps tell stories. stories of people in the city.
Since the majority of native townspeople–being of German origin– had to leave the city of Cesky Krumlov in the middle of the 20th Century and the soviet years ignored it with contempt, this jewel of European Renaissance, turned asian tourism Mecca, struggles to redefine its “raison d’être”.
As the sun sets in the evening the unlit windows of the old town in the foreground tell me a sad story of forfeited past. A city who lost its townspeople, and became an empty shell preserved with UNESCO funds to one day hopefully rekindle life.
Argentorato stands on his basement atop an allegorical fountain of flowing rock among slabs of water and looks now south towards the sources of the Isar. Where were you looking towards before you came here?