Mirroring Love

A mirror usually knows exactly where one person ends and the other begins.

Maria and Panagiotis made that line surprisingly difficult to find.

Spend a little time with them and you would see it. A thought beginning with one and somehow already understood by the other. The same instinct arriving from two directions. Decisions that seemed to happen somewhere in the space between them.

They weren't alike.

They were simply so attuned to one another that, at times, the mirror between them felt almost transparent.

That became Mirroring Love.
And it gave us one rule:
nothing should exist only once.

A line returned as an arch. An arch found itself again in a reflection. Cypress trees repeated across the landscape. White flowers appeared once in the garden and then somewhere unexpected on a mirrored surface. Even the sky occasionally found its way onto the table.

We kept everything else disciplined.
White. Deep green. Black.
Then we introduced the one material incapable of behaving itself.

Mirror.

Because for all its precision, a mirror never gives you exactly the same image twice. Move a little and the composition changes. Another person enters it. The landscape shifts. What seemed like background becomes part of the picture.

That instability was important.
Maria and Panagiotis had given us a story about two people who understood each other almost instinctively. We didn't want to freeze that into a symbol.

We wanted the space to do what they did.

**Respond to what was standing opposite it.**