Along my daily walk I stop. There is this wall in the park where people practice their tennis. I stare into my shadow. I squint to try to see what is there. It looks like me. I can always tell my shadow from others. My shadow has a certain hunch. "Posture!" I admonish myself. It doesn't matter. My shadow always has that peculiar look.
To illuminate the shadow of the soul is a grand endeavor. It's much easier to photograph the shadow I cast onto the earth. Or a wall. I photograph my shadow all the time, fascinated by how it follows me. And haunts me. A cloud moves in, the shadow disappears. I wait for its return. An old friend, enigma, and ghost, my shadow follows me when conditions are right. When it leaves, its departure is only temporary.
After a long couple of weeks, I am returning to my work. Bit by bit, art saves me. The sun returns and I look into back into my shadow and just stare. Finding no answers, I continue my walk. I am thankful for my camera. I am thankful for the life of an artist.
Coming back to the studio, I wonder what today's art has taught me. Looking into the shadow of my work I squint again. I know something hidden is there but I give up trying for the moment. It's too close. Work reveals itself with time. The shadow is only illuminated in tiny increments. I shrug and rub my tired eyes. Then, I tell myself that I simply must improve my posture.