Mirrors in metal, and the masked
Mirror of mahogany that in its mist
Of a red twilight hazes
The face that is gazed on as it gazes.
Jorge Luis Borges, MIRRORS
rehearsing Ghost Architecture in Stanford Theater and Performance Studies, Roble Gym
Light poured through those high windows like it had somewhere to be, turning everything gold, everything impossible. The mirrors, smudged, honest and ancient, caught it all, multiplied it, made the whole room feel infinite. And Judy. She moved through that light like she’d been forged in it, all muscle and grace, her body reading the space with an instinct you can’t fake, can’t learn. Every gesture felt deliberate and dangerous, an invitation and a threat, all in the best way.
She made reflection look like destiny instead of what it was… dumb luck.