A blog about photography & transformative art
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In the middle of an art fair I looked up. Atop a canvas tent a plain banner fluttered in a foggy breeze. Below was the spectacle of event. Artists, patrons, food vendors and children mingled amongst artifacts of the creative spirit. Yet, above it all was the homely banner. Boring and ordinary, it captivated me.
Last night at about 9:00 PM the air changed. The breeze shifted in an instant. The cool ocean air washed over the house and drifted through the open windows. It is that way with the fog here in Northern California. It is like a fickle lover that evaporates and abandons you on a whim, only to return on its own terms in due course.
A withered flower on the patio made me stop and look up. Up there I saw nothing. Just sky. Cloudless, it framed the flower with the glow of its light. The flower had become a ghost. It was only a few days ago that it was in full bloom. Then it just died, its rapid dacay remarkable.
July Fourth in our town seemed somber this year. Buried in the facade of its usual silliness, it somehow felt just a wee bit forced in its frivolity. Perhaps the same parade with the same floats year after year has numbed us all. Maybe the economy has blunted the usual patriotic optimism and fervor for everyone. Or, maybe it was just me.
When my friends at Red Door Gallery in Oakland asked me to participate in their July, 2009 show, Shedding, I immediately accepted. Transition and transcendence have always been themes in my photomontage series, Desolation's Comfort. Whenever I'm asked to participate in a themed show, I try to go with the first impressions my imagination brings to me. In the this case, I had in my mind's eye the image of a giant snakeskin having be shed and blowing in the wind. Movement and scale are elements that I've always wanted to play with and incorporate in my prints. I therefore set out to create large banners to be hung from the rafters of the gallery.
Tomorrow is a great day for photos. July 4th is a gaudy holiday filled with silly hats, parades, flags, bunting, and an occasional Uncle Sam on stilts. My camera is ready, I just cleaned the sensor with some exotic (meaning expensive) cleaner and the batteries are charging. Today I'm doing business chores that keep things going, the unglamorous underpinnings of life.
There is something to be said for routine. For if one follows a routine for some time it is something akin to a chant. The drone of familiarity can allow us to see beyond the dailiness of living. When one walks a similar path every day, certain things start to become clear.
Looking down I see the traces of those who came before me. Like an archeologist pondering his dig, I wonder what they mean. In the middle of a skateboard park, in the middle of suburbia, I laugh at my own pretensions. But then I realize that every mark is important. Each scratch tells a story. Each crack is an opening. I marvel at the beauty of a random universe.
Back when I was a small boy, old people had gazing balls in their gardens. I still remember the first time I encountered one. It seemed alien, a shiny object placed there by strange forces. And for a small boy raised to be cautious, it looked very breakable. I imagined what the adults would say if I'd somehow caused the thing to roll off its pedestal and disintegrate. I remember thinking that a lot when I was young—"Just be careful."
A lake in summer. The hot sun beats down on my neck, burning into my collective memory of past summer suns. Walking along a dusty path I see the shimmer of heat waves as they rise ahead. Then, I hear the sloshing of the lake's shoreline. Water dances and laughs at me, beckoning me towards it. Like a fountain of youth it sends me into a dream.
