Texture#6 Poverty

If there is a sight that instantly conjures the thought 'poverty' in my mind it is this sight. Corrugated iron sheets bent round each other, wrapping their dented and busted 2mm thick hands around a single room, squeezing the life out. They are painted happy colours but the corners peel back where rust sets in, decay eats at the edges of the flimsy walls, dispelling the skin deep veneer. This house is broken, these walls are failing, sagging with age, succumbing to the will of time.

The hot air inside is thick, close and heavy with the smell of old cooking. Holes in the ceiling let through pin beams of light that reveal the dust that sticks to the single bare incandescent bulb, the only source of light, that leaves corners darkened in a permanent vignette, no one sees what hides in the darkness of those corners.

Each shack stands alone, though there are thousands upon thousands each has its own story, its own prisoners. The walls remember different pains the bulbs highlight different atrocities and the memories change them. They cannot hide it, try as they might, the scars of history bleed through from the background if only we take the time to look closely enough to see.

Peeling paint and crumbling mortar, time pushes through the cracks. That which was once strong becomes enfeebled, brittle and bent. This wall remembers that it was once dust and tries to resist its inevitable return but time heads no one. Neglect hangs heavy on its face, each layer is laid bare and its history is an open book to those who care to see. It's former days of strength are all but forgotten a shadow blown away by the winds of time.

But this house is not left to its own end. It does not belong to itself for it was purchased at a price higher than its own value. One stronger and wiser than it is at work within, he is creating a masterpiece, breaking off the old and dilapidated and replacing it with the new. He has a vision that looks beyond the possible and deeper than the skin.

He cries:

 'O house of Israel, can I not do with you as this potter has done? declares the Lord. Behold, like the clay in the potter's hand, so are you in my hand, O house of Israel.'

the response:

"Let me hear joy and gladness;

let the bones that you have broken rejoice."

Title font: 'Sketch Gothic'