“The ultimate aim of all creative activity is the building.” — Bauhaus Founded in Weimar in 1919 by Walter Gropius, the Bauhaus was never merely a school. It was a proposition: that art, industry, architecture, typography, furniture, theatre, and daily life could be reorganized into a single modern language. More than a century later, its visual grammar remains permanently embedded within contemporary culture. The Bauhaus in Design Plate Series traces not the institution itself, but its afterimage — the migration of Bauhaus principles across generations of designers, illustrators, typographers, and digital practitioners. Geometry becomes rhythm. Transparency becomes movement. Primary colors dissolve into gradients, systems, and optical interference. What once belonged to modernism now behaves like visual memory.

The Missing Spring Chair began as a commission, but unfolds like a quiet occupation of space. Invited by Milan-based interior studio Nobody & Co to intervene upon their minimal “Missing Chair,” Chloe Patience transformed the object into a living structure overtaken by bloom, filament, and speculative growth. Developed in collaboration with Timorous Beasties, the series merges the restraint of industrial furniture with the unruly behavior of spring itself. Drawing from the studio’s botanical illustrations and textile language, Patience translated printed forms into dimensional embroidery using trapunto and stumpwork techniques — methods historically associated with raised surfaces, ornamental illusion, and tactile excess.

In response to a commission from Riksbyggen, Bigert & Bergström have created a sculptural chamber in the form of an egg-shaped sauna that has been installed at Luossabacken in Kiruna, Sweden’s northernmost town. Kiruna is currently undergoing a radical transformation, which involves a gigantic move for the whole town. This is so that the mining company LKAB can extract more of the iron seam that cuts diagonally downwards beneath the town. The iron ore is and has been – ever since it first began to be extracted at the end of the 19th century – an important source of income for Sweden, and absolutely vital for the town of Kiruna. No mine, no town. But the breaking up and devastating transformation of the landscape, the environment and the architecture caused by the move are also sparking a lot of debate. Solar Egg has been made as a social sculpture where local people and visitors to the town can meet and, for instance, discuss these challenges. In the arctic climate of Lapland the sauna occupies a key position, as a room for warmth and reflection. B&B have taken up this tradition and developed a sculptural symbol that prompts thoughts of rebirth and an incubator that nurtures conversation and exchanges of ideas. The project is a continuation of the artists’ strategy to incorporate the climate into the experience of the artwork which was initiated with the Climate Chambers in 1994.

Olafur Eliasson treats perception as material. Light, reflection, transparency, and geometry become instruments through which space is not merely observed, but continuously produced by the viewer. His works do not stabilize into fixed images; they shift with movement, angle, duration, and atmosphere. Across these plates, circles recur as orbital forms — lenses, suns, mirrors, planetary fragments suspended between science and sensation. Colour behaves architecturally: layered, filtered, refracted into temporary alignments. The compositions appear precise, yet remain unstable, always completing themselves through the act of looking. In archival form, these works resemble diagrams from an imagined cosmology — collectible studies in light, rhythm, and spatial consciousness. Each plate preserves not an object alone, but a condition of seeing.

“One does not go anywhere barefoot in memory.” — inspired by Finnish proverb tradition Kuula + Jylhä approach footwear as sculptural narrative. Leather folds, layered textures, painted heels, and unexpected silhouettes transform the shoe from accessory into object—part garment, part artifact, part stage prop suspended between dream and utility. Their work resists polish in favor of tactility. Surfaces ripple like fabric caught in motion; fringes resemble animal coats, feathers, or sea growths. Each pair carries the atmosphere of a remembered scene rather than a fixed trend, as though collected from fragments of theatre, folklore, and private ritual. Across these plates, the shoe becomes more than an item of dress. It behaves as a portable architecture for emotion: whimsical, unstable, deeply physical. Objects designed not simply to accompany movement, but to alter its rhythm.

Oksana Boriychuk’s jewelry revives vernacular ornament as living ritual rather than historical citation. Drawing from Hutsul material culture— brasswork, ceramic beads, woven tassels—her pieces preserve the tactile memory of celebration, harvest, and seasonal renewal. The collections move between sacred object and personal adornment. White enamel recalls budding willow branches before Easter; hand-formed clay beads echo thawing earth and first blossoms emerging beneath snow. Brass carries warmth, weight, and continuity, while delicate imperfections preserve the trace of the maker’s hand. These works do not imitate folk tradition from a distance. They continue it.

The Op-Vase transforms the vase from vessel into optical instrument. Through faceted and patterned glass, flowers fracture into repetitions, distortions, and shifting fields of colour—nature translated through perception rather than preserved in stillness. Bilge Nur Saltik approaches the object as a mediator between material and illusion. Transparency becomes unstable; the ordinary bouquet dissolves into layered refractions. The work recalls Op Art, early experimental photography, and the chromatic instability of light moving through cut crystal. Each composition exists between clarity and abstraction. Flowers remain visible, yet never fully fixed. The image trembles between object and mirage.

“It has to surprise, seduce and calm down.” — Winy Maas The Imprint transforms architecture into surface memory. Designed by MVRDV for Paradise City, the project rejects the isolated monument in favour of something more atmospheric: a building that absorbs its surroundings and reflects them back as relief, shadow, and illusion. Without windows, the façade becomes narrative. Neighbouring structures are pressed into the concrete skin like traces left behind by pressure and time. Architecture here behaves less as enclosure than imprint—an urban surface carrying evidence of the city around it.

"I do not seek the perfect photograph, but to provoke accidents that create the emotion of an image." — Etienne Francey   The photography of Etienne Francey resists stillness. Nature bends, dissolves, vibrates and reappears through movement, distortion, and light. Working between observation and abstraction, Francey transforms the visible world into something fluid — images that feel closer to memory, atmosphere, or sensation than direct documentation. Inspired by landscapes, water, flora and wildlife, his work explores photography as a tool of transformation rather than preservation. Reality is not fixed in his images; it is continually becoming.

“If photography is my voice, then colour is my language..”  — Teresa Freitas The photography of Teresa Freitas exists in a suspended state between reality and imagination. Using colour as both atmosphere and structure, Freitas transforms architecture, interiors, coastlines and still life into luminous studies of softness and calm. Her pastel compositions dissolve the noise of contemporary life into something slower, quieter, and deeply cinematic. Working with natural light and delicate tonal palettes, she constructs images that feel less observed than remembered — fragments of places filtered through emotion, nostalgia, and dream. Across the Pastels series, colour becomes a language of stillness.

“I’m interested in how desire is engineered..”  — Beverly Fishman Form becomes pharmacology. Color, dosage. Geometry, a system for feeling—regulated, repeated, calibrated until emotion appears measurable. Fishman builds a language where the clinical meets the intimate, where the body is addressed through abstraction rather than depiction. These works borrow the authority of design—clean edges, luminous surfaces, serial logic—and redirect it toward states we cannot easily name. Relief replaces illusion; objects hold their presence like prescriptions: precise, coded, quietly persuasive.

“Elegance is a refusal.”  — Coco Chanel​​​​​​​ Chanel distilled modernity into a discipline of subtraction. Ornament gives way to line; excess yields to precision. In her world, style is not accumulation but decision—what remains after everything unnecessary has been removed. Across decades, that principle holds: the body liberated, the silhouette clarified, the object reduced to its essential gesture. Black, white, gold—materials and tones arranged with architectural restraint—become a language that reads instantly, yet never exhausts itself.

“Smile in the mirror. Do that every morning and you’ll start to see a big difference in your life.”  — Yoko Ono​​​​​​​ Yoko Ono made art from thought, language, silence, and invitation. Long before participation became common practice, she asked the viewer to complete the work: to imagine, to move, to repair, to listen. Across performance, text, objects, film, and activism, Ono dissolved the border between art and life. Her gestures are often simple, but simplicity in her hands becomes radical clarity.

More than a material experiment, From Insects proposes a shift in perception. It asks whether value can emerge from what industry ignores, and whether collaboration can replace extraction as a model for making. Huissoud’s objects remind us that design’s next frontier may not be synthetic or digital, but biological, local, and quietly alive. In honoring the labor of insects, she expands the meaning of craft itself.

Smith’s images are not inventions; they are calibrations. By removing excess, by insisting on clarity, he arrives at something stranger than fantasy: inevitability that feels improbable. His figures do not perform for the camera—they submit to it, becoming part of a larger order where wit, geometry, and grace align. In this space, surrealism is not spectacle. It is consequence. What endures is not the trick, but the discipline behind it. The patience to reduce, to align, to wait until the image holds. In that stillness, meaning does not expand outward—it settles inward. The viewer is left not with surprise, but with recognition: that the extraordinary was always present, waiting for precision to make it visible.

“Architecture begins when two bricks are carefully put together.” — Ludwig Mies van der Rohe (Rothschild) “God is in the details.” “Less is more.” “Be simple and then continue to be simple.” Few designers have dissolved the boundary between furniture and architecture as completely as Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. His work reduced form to discipline, proportion, and the eloquence of structure. Steel was bent into line, leather suspended like calm skin, glass lifted into civic ritual. What appears effortless in Mies is never casual; every junction carries the weight of decision. These three plates trace that rare continuity of thought. The cantilever chair transforms modern industry into seated lightness. The Barcelona Chair gives ceremony to rest, converting a throne into modern repose. The Neue Nationalgalerie extends the same language to the scale of the city: roof, column, glass, void. Across object and building alike, Mies pursued an order in which nothing could be removed without loss.

“I am interested in the traces of human ambition—what remains when the idea outlives its purpose.” — Danila Tkachenko Across her works, Danila Tkachenko does not photograph objects, but aftermaths. Forms persist where intention has withdrawn. Structures once precise—engineered, elevated, protected—now rest in suspension, held between memory and erasure. Snow absorbs them. Water steadies them. Darkness isolates them. Each environment becomes less a setting than a condition through which these remnants are understood. The series do not progress. They settle. What appears is not ruin in the dramatic sense, but a quieter state—where purpose has dissolved, and only the outline of belief remains.

“The thing’s hollow—it goes on forever—and—oh my God—it’s full of stars.” — 2001: A Space Odyssey Aboard Discovery One, en route to Jupiter, the world has already been decided. In 2001: A Space Odyssey, Stanley Kubrick composes an interior without excess, or hesitation. ​​​​​​​ Few works in cinema—and fewer still in design—have altered our perception of space, object, and future as profoundly as 2001: A Space Odyssey. What Stanley Kubrick constructed was not merely a narrative, but an environment: a total design language where architecture, industrial design, typography, and human gesture dissolve into a singular, controlled vision.

“I use mirrors to connect earth and sky—to reveal a hidden dialogue between what is above us and what we stand on.” — Shirin Abedinirad In the practice of Shirin Abedinirad, the landscape becomes both stage and participant. Her work intervenes lightly yet decisively—introducing reflective surfaces into deserts, railways, and open terrains, not to alter them, but to reveal what already exists within them: symmetry, illusion, and quiet rupture. Mirrors are her primary medium, but they are never neutral. Embedded into sand or aligned along paths, they fracture continuity and invite a reconsideration of space. The ground opens to the sky; distance collapses into proximity. What appears stable becomes uncertain, and what is absent suddenly emerges. Her compositions resist spectacle in favor of precision. Each placement is measured, each reflection intentional. The result is a subtle reorientation of perception—an invitation to step outside habitual seeing and encounter the world as something momentarily reassembled.

“I want to create things that transcend material itself—works that give form to light, to air, to the invisible.” — Tokujin Yoshioka In the work of Tokujin Yoshioka, design dissolves into phenomena. Objects are not conceived as static forms, but as conditions—moments in which light, structure, and perception briefly agree to become visible. His practice moves beyond the vocabulary of function or ornament, toward an inquiry into the immaterial: transparency, reflection, crystallisation, and flow. Across scales and typologies—from furniture to timepieces—Yoshioka’s work resists weight. Matter is refined until it approaches disappearance, leaving behind only sensation: the shimmer of glass, the diffusion of light, the quiet tension of a surface on the verge of transformation. What remains is not the object itself, but the experience it generates—ephemeral, precise, and enduring.

I don’t think of myself as a message-based artist. I think of myself as someone who is creating a place for people to think.” — Maya Lin From the outset of her practice, Maya Lin has worked with a language of reduction—form pared down to its most essential articulation, yet carrying within it the weight of vast systems. Flow extends this vocabulary into the realm of water: not as image, but as structure, memory, and consequence. The works unfold as quiet topographies. Carved, cast, or assembled, they trace the invisible architectures that govern the natural world—watersheds, glacial movements, submerged histories. Materials are never neutral; silver, encaustic, and wood are chosen not only for their physical qualities, but for their capacity to echo transformation—melting, erosion, accumulation. In this, the work does not depict change; it embodies it. What emerges is not instruction, but awareness. Familiar geographies dissolve into abstraction, scale expands beyond recognition, and the viewer is repositioned—no longer above the landscape, but within its systems. Flow does not argue; it reveals. The work allows the viewer to encounter the quiet magnitude of what is often unseen, and to recognize that natural forces persist, indifferent to the boundaries we impose.

The work of Lindsey Adelman operates at the intersection of structure and effect. Her lighting does not begin with illumination alone, but with the conditions that allow light to disperse, reflect, and transform. Form is not an end—it is a means of shaping something inherently immaterial. In the Cherry Bomb series, this condition is articulated through clustering. Glass spheres gather along branching metal frameworks, forming constellations that resist singular focus. Each element acts simultaneously as container and reflector, producing a layered field of light. The object is stable, yet visually expansive—its boundaries defined not by structure, but by diffusion. Cherry Bomb Fringe extends this logic outward. Fine metallic strands introduce movement and softness, capturing light beyond the central form. The fixture dissolves into its surroundings, shifting from object to atmosphere. What is designed is no longer only the lamp, but the space it inhabits. With Totem, the system condenses. Vertical alignment replaces branching, organizing elements into a sequential column. Variation is retained, but contained within a linear order. The result is a different kind of balance—less expansive, more concentrated—where light travels through the structure rather than radiating from it.

"I work as an independent visual storyteller who loves to translate ideas in moving and still scenarios. I collaborate with brands, creative agencies and cultural institutions to create audacious, beautiful and intelligent content for a wide range of needs. I believe in simplicity and playfulness to tell compelling narratives in order to elevate our communication.” — Maia Flore

The work of Kenya Hara proceeds through reduction. Across disciplines—graphic design, exhibition, material study—his approach returns objects to a state prior to assumption. This is not minimalism as style, but as method: a deliberate clearing that allows form, matter, and perception to reappear with precision. In Fear and Love, food is displaced from its context of consumption. Rice, wheat, and pasta are arranged not as sustenance, but as elements—units that accumulate into fields of quiet tension. The work reveals a dual condition: nourishment as both abundance and vulnerability. What appears simple becomes contingent, dependent on systems beyond the frame.

“It is the computer that generates the images, but I make the many small decisions that have significant impact on the effect of an image… People are always at the center of my visual work, I find nothing more inspiring.” Figures emerge at the threshold between control and surrender. Constructed through layered decisions yet resolved as singular images, the works hold a cinematic tension—soft distortions, suspended gestures, and fleeting contact with natural elements. Each portrait resists fixation, appearing momentary yet precisely composed. They do not describe a subject. They stage a presence.

“We wanted a simple, primitive mineral building capable of vibrating in the light differently in the morning, noon and evening… …a house that had in it its soul and its passions for history and archeology.” A house composed as if recovered. A restrained volume holds inserted masses of stone and cast material—an assembly that recalls construction not as a moment, but as accumulation. Reused concrete, marble, and travertine carry forward the logic of older walls, where structure and memory were inseparable. It does not imitate the past. It continues it.

"Heirloom furniture designed and made from a nature-first perspective." The Sebastian Cox  studio designs and makes for a better future in a forward-thinking, zero-waste, carbon-counting workshop and studio in London, England. They manage woodlands for biodiversity and resources in Kent, England.  The Mission is to double the area of wild land and woodland in Britain by 2040.  And to store 100 tonnes of Co2 in the things they make every year.

“Giving people a small ‘!’ moment—that’s what we want to do.” In the work of nendo, design begins with the familiar and shifts it—slightly, precisely—until it reveals something unexpected. Objects remain recognisable, yet no longer entirely resolved; a line bends, a surface opens, a function quietly reconsiders itself. Led by Oki Sato, the studio approaches form not as expression, but as intervention. Each piece operates with restraint, guided by clarity of thought and a sensitivity to use. The result is a body of work that does not announce itself loudly, but lingers—through subtle gestures that transform the ordinary into something momentarily unfamiliar.

“I wanted the building to be simple, almost pure—like an egg. A form that contains everything, yet reveals nothing at once.” — Paul Andreu Set within water, the National Centre for the Performing Arts—often called the “Giant Egg”—emerges as a singular, self-contained volume: an ellipsoid of titanium and glass, hovering at the edge of monument and mirage. Conceived by Paul Andreu, the structure withdraws from the immediate language of the city, choosing instead a geometry that precedes ornament, symbol, and narrative. Approached through a submerged passage, the building resists frontal encounter. It is not entered directly, but arrived at—as though crossing a threshold between conditions rather than spaces. Light refracts across its curved surface; reflections dissolve its mass. What appears solid begins to waver, its presence contingent on atmosphere, time of day, and the quiet movement of water that surrounds it.

"It has always been fascinating for me to explore the psychology of people’s relationships with each other and with the outside world, to give shape to human emotions. To take joy, despondency, indifference, rapture and jealousy to pieces. Feelings are abstract, therefore it is so interesting to look for and find the form of their visualization." "A passion for classical art and interest in everything new – technology, discoveries, experiments – led me to the type of mixed media, with which I work. From painting, I take colors and create air as an element of space. Reality and character I take from photography. My style originates from a long artistic tradition – collage. That is how my characters and spaces come together. At the next stage, I choose a brush of a graphics program. This is a subtle and accurate tool to create a light, weightless atmosphere similar to that of a dream. In my creative work, I am not searching for the subjects of thought. They spring from everyday life and observations of the people around. Choosing a motif for my exploration, I offer the audience a female view on things, which concern me. Undoubtedly, this view is based on feminist principles. Yet, the matter is not in confrontation, but in balance and harmony, where a woman is not an object, but foremost – energy."

"like a crazy dream you just can't shake. At the center of it all, there's a furious little heart that pumps equal parts vitriol and grace."- Karen Campbell, The Boston Globe In the work of Zoe Juniper, the body is neither subject nor instrument, but a permeable site through which the world quietly passes. Her practice unfolds across open terrains—shorelines, grasses, exposed ground—where movement is not imposed upon the landscape, but drawn out of it. Gesture emerges as a form of attunement: a listening made visible. Limbs extend into atmosphere, register pressure, yield, recalibrate. What appears composed is in fact contingent, shaped by the subtle agencies of air, gravity, distance—forces that do not declare themselves, yet inscribe every motion. Her dance resists sequence and culmination. It gathers in states rather than phrases—held only insofar as they can remain legible before dispersing again into the field from which they arise. Form becomes temporary coherence, a fleeting articulation within a larger continuum of change. Across the work, the body does not perform for the environment; it is continuously rewritten by it—its presence thinning, thickening, dissolving—until what remains is not choreography, but a condition: a body briefly made visible within the weather of the world.

“The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part… the essential thing in life is not conquering but fighting well.” The Olympic Games unfold as a recurring global ritual—an event measured not only in performance, but in symbol. Every iteration produces a language of its own: marks, emblems, posters, and systems of identity designed to hold a moment in time. These graphics do more than announce competition; they construct a visual memory of place, politics, and aspiration. From the geometric clarity of 1980 Summer Olympics to the vibrant abstraction of 1968 Summer Olympics and the restrained precision of 1980 Winter Olympics, each identity reflects a distinct cultural atmosphere. Lines, grids, and symbols become vessels for national expression, distilled into forms that must be instantly recognizable and endlessly reproducible. Across these plates, the Olympic image emerges as a system of signs—disciplined, symbolic, and enduring. What remains is not the outcome of the games themselves, but their imprint: a collection of visual artifacts that continue to circulate, long after the events have passed.

“I hope my drawings can serve as a record of landscapes that are disappearing… beauty can be a powerful way to communicate urgency.” In the work of Zaria Forman, drawing becomes an act of preservation. Vast fields of ice, water, and sky are rendered by hand, translating fragile environments into surfaces that can be held, studied, and remembered. Her images carry a quiet tension—between stillness and loss, observation and disappearance. What appears monumental is, in fact, transient. Each work functions as both document and elegy, recording a world in the process of change.

“I’m interested in the moment before differentiation… the system of resistance, and the degree to which one can overcome it. There’s no beginning or end—only states of condition.” In the work of Matthew Barney, form is not fixed, it is negotiated. The Cremaster Cycle unfolds as a system governed by tension, constraint, and release—its logic drawn from the biological mechanism that raises and lowers, holds and lets go. Across five films, the body becomes architecture, and architecture becomes a field of transformation. Identity is never stable; it exists only as a passage through opposing forces. Each gesture resists resolution, returning instead to a state of suspended potential.

"Our project at Detroit’s historic Hudson’s Site is a powerful tool to encourage economic growth and the renewal of civic pride.  In 2013, SHoP was selected after an invited competition to study the possibilities for using the former J.L. Hudson’s Department Store site in downtown Detroit as a catalyst for the ongoing revitalization of the city. Our clients at Rock Ventures recognized that the Hudson’s site must play a central role in their efforts to enliven the area by returning residents, commerce and public programing to the cultural center of Detroit. This effort ultimately led General Motors to choose our building as the location for its new global headquarters.  

Across these plates, flowers are preserved at the most delicate moment of their existence: radiant, fragile, and already dissolving back into the quiet cycle from which they came. Azuma Makoto in his own words: “Flowers start their lives from a bud, bloom, and eventually decay, showing different expressions at each moment. No flowers are perfectly identical; their ever-changing moments never cease to fascinate me.”  “I constantly seek what kind of ‘friction’ will be created by installing flowers in environments where they usually do not exist and discovering unknown aspects of their beauty.” “I’m focused on elevating the value of flowers and plants by expressing their unique forms. I convert the beauty of nature into artwork.”

Within these interiors, figures appear arranged with deliberate calm: swimmers in primary colors, bodies held in precise, almost ceremonial poses. The compositions borrow their angular discipline from the mass gymnastic spectacles of the Spartakiads, where thousands once performed synchronized routines before the state. In Švarbová’s images the choreography becomes quieter, more introspective — a handful of individuals inhabiting vast, pastel chambers of water and tile. The result is an atmosphere that feels both serene and faintly unreal. Colors are heightened, distractions removed, symmetry sharpened until the spaces approach abstraction. Water, for Švarbová, is more than subject. “I like water because, for me, it’s a mirror or the other side of the world,” she explains. “My photographs are my imaginary world. I would like to show people the other side of normal life.”​​​​​​​

Martín Ruiz de Azúa (Martín Azúa) is a Spanish designer born in the Basque Country in 1961. His training in Fine Arts gives his work a speculative and experimental nature. One of his first projects was the “Basic House”, a radical interpretation of a Nomad shelter, which since 2007 has formed part of the MOMA of New York collection. He is a passionate observer of nature which he incorporates into many of his works, especially the items of ceramics that he designs. He claims the use of craftsmanship to safeguard the natural diversity of material and technological culture, collaborating with craftspeople of different professions.

Gunia Project was founded by designers Natalia Kamenska and Maria Gavryliuk, who met while working in the fashion industry. The project began with ethnographic expeditions across Ukraine — discovering traditional crafts, meeting local artisans, and exploring museum archives and making a deep research of cultural heritage of different Ukrainian regions. The first object created was the gunia, a traditional Carpathian coat, handwoven from sheep’s wool. It became a symbol of the brand and gave it its name.

Once again Seletti amazes with an ambitious and unconventional project born from the collaboration with Antonio Aricò: Magna Graecia is the family of outdoor/indoor objects made entirely of terracotta, inspired by the stylistic features of the ancient Greek colonies of southern Italy. Magna Graecia has the ambition to invade terraces, gardens, verandas but also lounges, living rooms and entrance halls of houses all over the world, bringing everywhere a material closely linked to the Mediterranean tradition. Resellers of garden furniture in this material are in fact very common in southern Italy, and the purpose of Aricò is precisely to bring those warm and sunny atmospheres everywhere.  “Terracotta is, apparently, a very poor material, but one can do magic with it. I am fascinated by its "nude" color and the natural imperfection of its thicknesses, qualities that prompted me to create a family of objects that could speak of craftsmanship and at the same time tell passionate stories through the interpretation of Magna Graecia decorations", says Antonio Aricò. 

"I have been shooting New York for over 60 years now. And though I have achieved age, I can safely say I have never made my way to maturity so I have never made my way to maturity so I have never been jaded or bored. I think all this is due to the grittiness and hectic quality of the city, you never capture it, it captures you." " When you leave New York, it doesn't matter where you are, you're just out of town."  Although the passage of time has changed me, it has obviously not changed these images. However, my perception of them has been substantially altered by the years gone by.