Ceci n'est pas Magritte

Images are not real. This is not Magritte standing in front of his painting looking straight at me. His eyes are not compelling. He does not feel peaceful. He is not wearing a black suit. His siluette does not blend with his own surrealism work. There is no juxtaposition of ordinary objects. There is not a headless man in a black suit standing behind him, trapped inside a frame. The colors are not black and white.

This is the treachery of images.

The photograph is not the artist and his painting but rather a depiction of the artist and his painting. I cannot stretch my arm and touch his black tie, his white hair, the wrinkles in his face. My fingers will not be able to feel the texture of the canvas nor the roughness of the wooden frame. Like an image of a pipe that I cannot smoke, or an apple I cannot eat, this is a man who I will not meet.