This photograph is full of geometric shapes. The body forms a triangle inscribed in an oval, and the face is another oval, it is an egg shadowed by its own roundness.
Everything in him tends towards an invisible point on his right, our left: his right shoulder, his head, his mouth, his gaze and his tie do.
He is wearing a dark suit and a lighter colored waistcoat with large buttons. We can see five of them. He is also wearing a tie that is not tied properly and makes him look like he was in a hurry when he got dressed.
His chin is round, scornful , strong. His mouth is a wound not yet healed; it is a razor too, the same one that produced the wound, in an act of self-mutilation. The cheeks are too childlike to share the same face with those eyes.
The nose is small, feminine, pretty. It traces a perfect line that goes from the the its tip to the left eye brow.
The eyes are tyrants. They bully the rest of the face. They are too much to be real.
They are large, heavy lidded blue eyes. The best thing about them is the shadow cast by the eyelids on the ice blue irises; it makes them look as if they had been painted by Edward Burne-Jones.
The eyes look up, towards the left, our right.
They gaze at a point that is beyond any wall, any tree or any mountain. It is beyond seconds, hours and centuries.
This gaze doesn't address us, that would be unbearable for us, but it leads us somewhere: it is a portal, an oracle.
These eyes are not to be spoken about and, even if I just have, everything I said is irrelevant.
His forehead is wide and white. His hair looks thick and shiny. I like his hair.
This is the face I'll never get tired of looking at.
This face is the perfect icon. It is a face that requires one to be religious, obsessive about it.
Either that, or nothing.