there is nothing so prescient as the silhouette. it is by definition a thing unto itself. it lacks the defining characteristics that will set it apart from its other. it has no self. set against a flat background of color it cannot achieve more than it already has. it does not beg interpretation or further meaning. painters spend inordinate amounts of time pulling meaning from images by creating further and further descending circles of detail and the silhouette stands in oblique rebellion against all of it.
perhaps it is a single note reverberating, never reaching either crescendo or melody.