A blog about photography & transformative art
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As I write this, winter is, technically, three weeks away from us. I've always felt that the official designation of season is slightly out of sync with how things actually feel. The labels are about a month behind the tangibles. Right now it feels like winter and no meteorologist can tell me otherwise.
The sky is the most ephemeral of things. A masterpiece of abstraction that is ever changing, each iteration is achingly short-lived. We are drawn to behold a particular moment of sky precisely because we know it won't last. We so want to grasp at it and to keep it, but, alas, it cannot and will not stay for us.
Sometimes I get sick of the literal images of this or that. As a visual artist I am bombarded with images. Like listening to the lyrics of a ponderous song one more time, my mind gets heavy with content. That is why we have improvisation. That is why we have jazz. That's why visual artists have abstraction.
One of the best things about cell phones is that I can now talk to myself in public. Not that many years ago it was considered odd to have a conversation with oneself. Now people are talking aloud seemingly no one just about everywhere. True, they usually have some kind of Bluetooth earpiece attached to to them and they are, theoretically, talking to an other human being somewhere. But, who knows for sure?
Sunday I bought a fish. Sick of Safeway and its hermetic seals, I went to the farmer's market. There you know what the food is and from where it comes. Contrary to the Safeway illusion, meat is not born in plastic trays. It comes from animals that once lived.
The daisies in our front yard reach high for the midsummer sun. A fantasy forest, they come from nowhere and then, one sad autumn day, I realize they are gone. It happens every year.
Like a snapshot, my reflection catches me in a moment of my life. There was a time when I looked forward to a surprise reflection of myself. These days it merely shocks me to see how much I've aged since the last reflection. I shake it off and tell myself to stand up straight. It's hard to find a flattering reflection these days.
The doggie paddle was the first thing I learned how to do in Cook's Pond, a muddy swim hole in my New Jersey hometown. I dearly wanted to swim with the big boys out to the raft. But keeping my head above water had to be my first priority. The raft would wait. The doggy paddle came before the kick board which came before the breast stroke. I seemed to swallow a lot of water back then. I guess the murky pond was safe. I never did get sick.
Daylight Saving Time plays tricks come October. The mornings are dark long beyond when my body clock says "Morning!". My brain tells me to get up. My eyes say something different. I don't like to move clocks forward and backward. It feels like I'm trying to cheat the cosmos or mold it into some kind of seasonal convenience. It never works. October mornings are dark forever.
"Let's get the show on the road!" my father always said when he got impatient. I always imagined us as small circus ensemble as we'd rush to get into the car. It felt like he was ready to drive off without us if we didn't hustle. Dad loved to drive. If it were a long trip he'd have a thermos of coffee that he'd refill again and again at truck stops along the way. Day or night, he'd drink coffee and drive.
