Cupido’s Fall

There was a time when Cupido ruled the world. Not the cherubic archer of myth, but the man on the torn poster — a champion accordionist, his name blazing in dotted capitals, promising music and spectacle. Now, the paper curls at the edges, bleached and scarred by weather, the glory half-erased by time and graffiti. The god of love meets the fate of every earthly name: reduced to a fading print on a damp wall, fighting a losing battle against rust, mould, and the next layer of urban scribble.

The photograph works because it understands the poetry of decay. The black-and-white treatment is an apt choice — stripping the scene of colour lets the textures do the talking. We see the contrast between the smooth typeface and the ragged tears, the dark field of the poster and the pale scrawl of tags, the faint sheen on the accordion keys still catching the light. The graffiti to the left and above frames the composition, almost as if the city has signed its own name over the top of Cupido’s.

Technically, the exposure is well-judged. Shadows are deep without swallowing detail; the highlights in the scratched wall and peeling edges are preserved. There’s a deliberate grain here, giving the print an archival feel — like a rescued photograph from a past life. The framing is tight enough to focus on the message, yet loose enough to show the poster’s environment, which is essential for the narrative.

It’s not just a record of a wall. It’s a record of time — a once-commanding name now barely holding on, as if even the god of love can’t win forever.