A blog about photography & transformative art
There are two kinds of walks. The first is purposeful. One gets out of bed and says, "I'm going for a walk!" This proclamation is followed by the planning of a route. The more obsessive might pull out a map and, perhaps, write out an itinerary. Some might even program a GPS device. This kind of walk is more work than walk but it does have is proponents. And it does have its advantages.
Creativity is like a fickle lover. Just when you think you have it figured out you realize you know nothing about it at all. It's like waking up to an empty bed after a night of passion. Creativity comes and goes according to its own agenda. We are nothing more than conduits. The best we can do is show up for it. We certainly cannot control it.
Driving south of Tucson my cluttered mind opened up to the bone-dry sky. The friable earth had swirled into the heavens and tinted them into a dusty azure that was surprisingly pleasant. Other than the earth's tiny particles, there was nothing up there but the sun and an old cargo plane that was circling overhead. My brain was emptying out with each mile south of civilization—swirling around with the dust and plane. But soon, the cargo plane got tired of its antics and landed. Then there was nothing.
A sense of place—the only way to discover it is to walk at dawn. One must make discoveries on one's own terms. I must be alone when walking a path for the first time. There is nothing quite like waking in a new place for the first time and getting out to see it as does the sun upon a fresh day.
Shoulders hunched, I walk through the park. In these parts, March and April are tempestuous months. And they most always bring storminess into life itself. I once got fired from my job in the month of March, something I always remember when the weather gets mercurial. Spring winds usher forth change, most all of it good. But sometimes it takes time to see the good and the wisdom of the universe. Once May rolls around a persistent sun basks the bones and still, quiet air prevails. The trick is to appreciate March and April for what they are. I look from the path and into the park's edge.
I feel his shadow before I actually see it. Like a light summer cloud that blocks the sun for just a moment, our shadows converge into one. Turkey vulture and I look at one another. I could swear he knows that I have a camera—He circles me for a pose. I click furiously, suddenly being blinded by the sun as his graceful wingspan moves aside and reveals the furious, burning ball of light. Then he moves back in position again to shade me. And the sun disappears behind him.
Right about there you'll see the javelinas," our host told us as we toured the town of Patagonia for the first time. Even in midday the small village in southeastern Arizona was pretty much empty. I figured the javelinas would be good company. I immediately made my plans to meet them.
"See that hill over that? That's Mexico." Our dear friend seemed excited to point that out to us as we looked out from a high, Arizona hill. The Arizona hill looked much the same as did the Mexican version. It was fun to imagine the hills in different colors like one sees on a map. But, no, they looked pretty much the same. "We'll drive down there and a bit and check out the border up close," he said as we walked back to the car.
In their day, Polaroid Land cameras were stunning. Up to that point in my young life, instant photography was the most enticing innovation I'd ever seen. I received a small Polaroid camera (called the Polaroid Swinger) for Christmas one prepubescent year and wanted to photograph everything with it. The photos weren't all that great, but the immediacy of the results was addictive. I loved everything about it. One would click the shutter, pull out the developing package, count until the processing was complete, pull apart the package a peel off the print. And there it was, a complete photo! I even loved that acrid preservative that one applied to the image afterward. Sticky and oddly pinkish, the preservative came loaded onto a long swab-like applicator that was sealed in a black, plastic cylinder. Applying it at the end was the best part of the whole process.
I rubbed my sandpaper eyes. I realized that I forgot to blink—for about an hour. Deep into the development of my new web site I began to wonder. Were we humans really meant to co-exist with computers? PHP, CSS, HTML, FTP...blah, blah, blah. After my fifteenth phone call to tech support I rubbed my sandpaper eyes. I forgot to blink.
