Saturday, August 8, 2015
The View From Here Part 4
"The View from Here”will be posted as a series. This post may contain material dealing with sensitive topics. Rate it "R", Please be advised.
Exploring these images with words is new, more like the touch tour I once had of a Picasso sculpture, feeling the very metal, and splayed substance of its cold bulk, exploring its subtle aspects.
The snapshots are the same, with many facets, casting hues diffracting, radiating, mirrored, constructed, disnantled. I've put them here, out of the trash can of obscurity, safe for awhile. Just a few.
Its palm sized, a luminous, richly hued Instamatic square, a particularly luminous one, one that seems to have an elusive tempature, one thats typical, but fixes my thin gaze tenaciosuly... frozen window, frozen sun about to set.
A girl of thirteen stands at the center, halfway down a hill. My sister Stacy, sunstruck, faces us, striding uphill in a field of low, yellow grass driven into a carpet of rounded dimples - like little haystacks.
The photographer is further uphill than Stacy, so we see an expansive sloping landscape. The light is warm orange-hued, the way it turns near the horizon before finally signing off, and at that angle where all it touches casts a very long shadow.
Her thin arms are clasped as though warming herself, her head is tilted a little regarding the photographer, just a vauge, curious smile, she squnits against the glare, her weak "Lazy Eye" not apparent, I think. Her flared blue jeans make me smile. It's 1972. Each leg is a different variation of blue, navy and pale blue.
I know this field well, but here, its fresh again suffused in gentle peace, suffused in drama too. Each round tuft casts a long shadow. Many hundreds of graphic dimples are seen getting blurrier and snmaller downhill with distance. Whoever took this image likely didin't gave much, if any, thought to this quaility. Seemingly unimportant, this dimpled grass folds me into it's steep slope.
The View from Here part 3
“The View from Here” will be posted as a series. This post may contain material dealing with sensitive topics, Rate it “R”. Please be advised.
A Simple Wall
Invisible. Not apparent. Words alone give it back to us.
I sit at a dark wood desk, mostly turned away, mixing color or working on a small piece. Polo shirt and aviator glasses. Hanging on the far wall is viewed the corner of a still life painting - a table cloth's droop supporting small stones displayed like gray h'ourderves. I hold a paint brush in one hand, but have turned to face Ed, who's popped in and said "Hey!", and caught me smiling at him. He gave me this print. I'm at art school, in my painting studio.
This black and white picture is here because of who worked on the other side of that plywood wall, seen at that edge on the left. I turn on some make-believe X-Ray vision trying to regain him from this snapshot that wont relent, ever. Any vague smudge would do, really, any dim silhouette. In my make believe see-through vision he is there among his stacked paintings, head bowed, lost, like me, and not lost. Claudio.
I rarely used a camera then, and was, regretfully, fanatical about that, drawing and painting were superior. And this complete lack of Claudio's image is why I needed a substitute - not a picture of a man, but of one side of his space. Its so meager. Thirty years later not a single photograph of him can be found online.That baffles me considering what he managed to do in his intense life.