The Weight of Layers

We spend our lives peeling back the skin of things, searching for a center that rarely reveals itself. We look for the core, the truth, the solid heart of the matter. But perhaps there is no core. Perhaps we are only ever the sum of our layers, the thin, papery membranes that protect us from the cold. In the kitchen, the knife descends. The scent rises, sharp and familiar, stinging the eyes. It is a small violence, necessary for the soup, for the warmth of the evening. We do not often consider the history held in these translucent folds—the soil of the field, the slow patience of the growth, the way it waited in the dark earth before being pulled into the light. We discard the outer shell as if it were nothing, forgetting that it was the only thing standing between the life inside and the frost. What remains when the last layer is gone?

Silvia Bukovac Gasevic has taken this beautiful image titled It’s Just an Onion. She finds the quiet dignity in the mundane, reminding us that even the simplest things possess a profound architecture. Do you see the history held within its skin?