Silhouettes. (From My Observations by Edith Blind.) The silhouette of an object is not the object itself. Silhouettes have a secret fraternity of their own which is unrelated to the object they pretend to be defining. Therefore when we see a black form in the shape of a bird standing upon the branch of a tree we should not say, "I saw a bird," but rather, "I saw the silhouette of a bird," or more accurately "I saw a silhouette." The bird is not there at all. This is only your memory of it, imprinted upon the sky. Silhouettes are united in their heartfelt longing to know love, which they can never do, existing as they do on the outer rims of feeling. Their forms are dark and flawless, and yet they waver on the fringes of life. They are among the saddest things we know and this is why so many of the silhouette pictures we cut out of paper carry with them an air of poignant loss, no matter what their subject matter might be. This emotion is mitigated by the presence of the paper. Paper is a happy substance which is able to express itself in a variety of ways. Paper can rustle, rattle, take on different colours, and has a material presence. Silhouettes are silent and have only one way to involve themselves in life, they must be seen, and for this reason they most often join themselves to an object that is standing still against a very pale sky in the evening; they are particularly fond of the disappearance of the sun and the clear blue-green tinge that fills the horizon at the beginning and end of each day.