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Sanda Iliescu Images | Images 2 | Images 3 | Images 4 | Images 5 | Images 6 Winter Trees, 1995 Silhouettes of trees in winter are assemblages of lines—webs of thin and thick branches that lead one's eyes across an expanse of sky. Like ancient cracks, such silhouettes are never perfectly smooth. Bare twigs and branches delineate jagged pathways, filled with pauses, near stops, and changes in direction. The base of a cut-off limb jets out as an odd, disquieting stump. A thick branch interrupts a finer, more delicate growth pattern. The umbrella pines in Rome's Doria Pamphili Park were close models for my Winter Trees. I drew and photographed their trunks, limbs, and roots. Their twisted branches resembled the cracks in the surfaces of Rome: the weather-worn, river-like fissures in the Severan Marble Plan, or the giant rifts in stones at the Roman Forum. I saw the bare branches as negative incisions, deep grooves between areas of sky. I made lines by cutting brown paper and pulling it apart to reveal black layers underneath. The lines in Winter Trees are slightly sunken—they are the slow, dark counterparts to the swift, lighthearted trajectories of Swallows.
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