Saturday, December 31, 2016

The train.

 


How far to go, he called, when does it part
She waits for me beyond the converging lines
Through the tears and lost worlds of love
She waits for me, she waits in another time
When we were one, the only ones to know
Where we stood strong, true love still a crime
Young, sweet, innocent love fresh from the heart
Leaving others behind the walls to define
What we should be

Now the passage is complete, the platform stage
We no longer play, life took its toll, sliding doors
Close on us, kept us apart, allowing us to age
Facing the masters and mistresses, seeking flaws
In others, knowing only one destination can be
Where the passage stops, no longer be ignored
The wilderness has gone, once ravishing desires
Now playing out the fare to be in one place because
We are what we should be.


Friday, December 30, 2016

Missing

 

He stepped out for a while, to find some quiet time
Perhaps he's tired of this and that, of things defined
Being judged, misunderstood, misaligned 
With the parameters so clear, rigored, almost a crime.

His boundaries have collapsed, shattered and scattered
The frame is broken and the image spills, voices chattered
Upon an open grave, milk on a tiled floor, splattered
As if he didn't care, beyond the field nothing mattered.

It's not dark yet, he'll be back, shaking his thoughts away
Talking to himself, questions with answers, a mind astray
The picture is there, waiting, while he wonders what delay
The rest have in seeing what he sees, the motion of decay.

The words rest now upon his weary thoughts, too little time
Collecting the philosophy of others as a fence consumed by vine
Not baring fruit, not gesturing to others which way to climb
Reassured, resurrected, breathing quietly, smelling decay divine. 


Friday, December 23, 2016

Making time

 

What we see in art is of our choosing. Appreciation is recognizing the skills of the artist. We don't have to like it to appreciate it. We might pause to implore beauty to expose itself. When it fails to do so we might reject the art first hand. Or we can allow the art to stare back at us, allowing more to be revealed. 
Art is manipulative. The more we absorb ourselves in its innate nature the more we feel the effects of our appreciation. Art is often assumed to be easy. The very fact that not everyone can create art is proof enough that there is some labor involved, some understanding of human nature, a degree of compromise, of recognition, of persistence.
Appreciation isn't for everyone. It requires knowledge. We need to know what is involved, what the artist intended, the context of the ideas. We don't always have the time to devote to art. 
Make time: just once.

Blurred Visions

 

The photographers task is simple: be clear and sharp. The Decisive Moment is finite and must contain all that is necessary for the photograph to do its job. 

How unfortunate that this can never be achieved even if there is an element of truth in it, and I doubt that there is.

The photographers task is by no means simple and at no time will the photograph be clear and sharp. There are those that seek this end in futility, in which case they will always be disappointed. Even if they claim satisfaction, that satisfaction is most often left in the hands of others. Approval from others is paramount. A quick sale, a postcard to a friend, a 'like' on social media, a prize, received like a merit badge on completion of a poorly conceived and equally constructed camp fire by a Boy Scout. The fire is luke warm in both cases.

We are told to try harder, but with what and at what cost? Endless instruction and a continuous flow if technical prowess still leaves us wanting more. Following a rainbow is more fruitful. Praying for intervention has equal prospects. At the end of the day satisfaction will come from the value of the reward perceived or received from others. Judgement will always be based on the temperament of others. 

Mind you, some are quite content with this predicament. I have on many occasions heard this pursuit referred to as 'advancement' or 'improvement' or, heaven forbid, 'creativity'. 'Mimicry' is more accurate. More than once have I seen the eternal Sun set over another horizon and wonder how many times I need to see this particular one posted on Flickr or Facebook to remind me that someone with an iPhone was there as well. Living each moment as if it is your last was never meant to be taken literally, nor does it need to be recorded. Prosperity will have more important things to consider.

And what of the Selfy? How is it that we have moved from a society that once revered the portrait as a symbol of prosperity and social significance to a mode of self-indulgent narcissism. Not only do we find those that cannot pass a shiny surface without stopping to admire their own reflection but it is necessary to photograph it and reward themselves by posting said image on the scourge of intellectual companionship: the Internet, assuming their 'friends' need an update of appearances and an appalling lie that beauty beyond belief  has just graced their presence.

Ottoman in his investigation of the history of photography stated that the original meaning of 'photograph' has been diverted and somewhat lost in the new inclusion of digital enhancement. Be it that the image is projected onto the sensor and 'drawn' by light, the similarities to the original process has been lost in a flurry of photons and manipulation of pixels. The question we might ask, even if we are not purists, is: "is there a line and on which side will we stand when we say "this is a photograph"?

I don't yet have my own answer, or maybe my position shifts. 

What I would like to do right now is to do a bit of navel gazing