A blog about photography & transformative art
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"Listen to the ocean!" my mother used to tell me. Back in the early '60s the Jersey Shore had big conch shells cast onto the beach. They were everywhere. I was a short little towhead with a buzz cut and snazzy white sunglasses. I picked up a shell and held it to my ear. Sure enough, it had the echo of the ocean deep inside it.
The sand of Muir Beach is ever an elusive, artist's palette. It is swept constantly by sea and wind, its surf adds and subtracts. One cannot become too attached to any particular composition. None are made to last. But, in their brief life, they are lovely as anything ever conceived.
Consumers. In a recession it's all about consumers. The consumers aren't confident. The consumers are upset. The consumers aren't buying. The consumers aren't consuming. We hear the word consumer so often that we forget its meaning. Consume means to use up, to destroy, or to absorb all the attention or energy of something or someone. How exactly did we turn into a consumer society? When did consumption become such a desirable word?
Wandering in San Rafael the other day I encountered a construction zone. Part of the sidewalk was closed. After a circuitous route across the street and back again I got back to the zone and came upon a temporary underpass of scaffolding and lights. If I were a young lad I'd construct a fantasy world in my mind of underworld grottos of magic and mirth. The good news is that, in my heart, the little lad still dwells and I found myself photographing the makeshift underpass with glee—hoping to catch a goblin or two, peaking through the fence.
Today my truck needed its smog certificate and an oil change. Not requiring a full day of service, I decided to leave the truck with the repair shop and go for a three-hour walk. The shop is in an industrial part of San Rafael, a nondescript no man's land of suburban strip malls, highway ramps and construction yards. It seemed to be a good opportunity to find some intriguing photos outside the realm of the precious and picturesque.
Returning from the farmer's market on Sunday, I felt a moment of great abundance as I laid out the booty from my expedition. A kitchen glows when fresh produce arrives. It is a moment of great anticipation.
I stood at a fence post. On a path near my home. The morning light was like a flood lamp in my studio. At the end of a rare April heat wave, I could feel the radiance on my back and neck. The path is the remnants of an old railroad spur that once connected the villages of Marin County. Now it might connect the morning walkers if we'd put down our cell phones and iPods and say hello to one another. But, no one ever looks at anyone else. In this instance, most people stare down as they pass, pretending not to see the guy with the camera who is photographing fence posts. We are all 21st-Century walking bubbles of self-contained entertainment.
Dabbling in artistic discovery eventually drives me back to my more formal work. I can always feel it. At a certain point while drifting down the river I feel the need for structure. I crave a mooring, maybe even some solid land. Desolation's Comfort is a body of work that began with my MFA graduate show in 2007. On and off, I return to it, for it is the work that seems to express my most inner place. Today, I am back again.
I've been slowly scanning and digitizing my library of negatives and transparencies. A daunting task in many ways, it is nonetheless a process of discovery and passion. The old negatives jump to life. Memories blossom. Was this really my life? I must have dreamed it, it seems so long ago and so far removed from the me of today.
It's been a busy month. Often, life creates a big stack of chores and tasks. It's hard to see over the mound to the other side. April is often the month when it hits the hardest. Taxes and accounting and bills and serious people dominate the energy. There are forms and rules and procedures. Even my car registration is due in April. This year I need a smog certificate.
