Mystery and Melancholy of a Street (1914) by Giorgio de Chirico.
A Freudian dream.
In the dream it was night, yet the streets were bright orange and the corridors shiny white. Lights came from nowhere and everywhere – just around the next corner, but also from objects themselves (the bizarre wooden cart in the middle). They were self-illuminating, but also covered in shadows.
Two sets of arcades, they exist in different dimensions, different physical worlds; their vanishing lines are almost vertikal to each other. A dream that cannot be true, yet everything makes sense. Harmony of the wrong physics.
The little girl, we couldn’t see her face, a nostalgic phantom chasing the loop down the bright orange street. The small empty circle carries all the melancholy with it. She’s heading toward the ghost around the corner, of whom we could see nothing but the shadow it casts on the ground. Is it a sculpture, a man with a pole? Mystery unsolved.
Maybe this was indeed what metaphysics should look like. All the physical rules and reality and memories twisted together, all the possibilities happening at the same time, and in the end, nothing is solved.