A Book and a Ball

A few days ago I made a still life of two pipes standing on this background. Of the two this one remained standing while the other took a nose dive which I read as its desire to get off the set and go back to being a pipe. Then along came a book and a ball shaped object that has a latch and a lot of holes. I can’t explain why they seemed to belong together, and it won’t be for long in any case, but for this hour they were my curious companions.

When I look at the image now the first thing that speaks to me is the shadow of the pipe on the page. The longer I look at it the more it seems to be studying the text. Or maybe my attraction is to the space between the shadow and the pipe, just so close, and yet a tiny space remains between them, which of course I put there as I moved things around. That space delights me!

More than that I don’t know. It’s a work in progress, and as such maybe tomorrow I’ll resolve what to do with the ball, and also have another understanding of why any of this matters to me. That’s the way with work that keeps me company in the studio, it is always available to be reconsidered.

What’s next?

We woke up to a snowfall in the Luberon valley. The first thing I saw when I stepped outside was the uplifted, snow dusted hand of the tree, and the towering form of the cypress, behind which was the swirl of weather over the nearby hills. But what caught my eye, almost equally, was the green rimmed rectangle between the trees and the hills.

Something of small note surely, but it pinged my eye in such a way as to ask for my attention. And when attention is called I always feel a sense of certainty, as if the tiniest note was the necessary ligature between all things, no matter how small a part it plays. Because, really, I am responsible for everything in the frame, and if that is a given, then I must validate it by seeing everything there is to see, and knowing that opens up my mind (the mind’s eye) which makes me more alert to seeing what else there may be nearby.

This process of cumulative engagement is what I find so thrilling about the act of making photographs. It is ongoing and ever stimulating. One never knows what is coming next.

Word Play

I am often caught off guard, and sometimes amazed by the things that people build. Certainly our cities are filled with structures that astonish as well dismay us. And there are places out in the countryside that can do that to us too. So whenever something quirky or strange appears I like to wander into its sphere of energy to see what the hell they had in mind when they – whoever they, are, decided to build it.

Frequently I find myself with literary-like reactions, as if a simile is being served up to us, or is it a pun on something the builder had in mind, or was the architect being ironic, or is there a conflict or a parallel to something else being worked out in concrete and steel? Too often the results are plainly a tragedy, or worse a cliché. I could go on in this vein until literary devices fail to behave photographically..

But what surprises me is how this conceit can sustain itself in photographs, and how often these devices might help us to better understand the way the photograph works, or even what the photographer may have had on his or her mind. Try it. Look at some images and see if this offers some leverage to seeing deeper into the meaning of the work.

And if you can figure out what this one is please let me know.

On the line

Our daily project of the continuous line continues to keep us both excited, and the challenge is greater than one might expect. It’s easy to think, “oh, it’s just a line, what’s the big deal”? But we are surprised at how such a pared down gesture requires so much focus and swiftness and timing, and finally, desire.

In some way it is no different than the act of making a photograph. An in the moment action, and it’s done!

Unexpected Beauty

I drove to the town of Apt, which is a 15 minute drive from Bonnieux, just to get a feel for it since it is the biggest little town nearby. A town that is charming on some days, and tired and brooding on others, but most lively and engaging on Saturdays when the market comes to town. Today it was a dreary old place until I turned a corner and came upon the Marie, their city hall, and there it was! The Tree, in all its formality, poised like the rising tree in Balanchine’s The Nutcracker.

Sitting at the top of a grand staircase in front of an old Beaux Arts style building, this transformation from forest creature to garish ornament made me wonder about our definition of beauty. Because, while being absurd, and oddly cheery, it is also beautiful in an unexpected way, and perhaps this absurdity is where its beauty comes from. Who says the two can’t accommodate each other.

Finally, it raises the question for me about what constitutes beauty today, and why is it so often suspect in the contemporary art world? This is something I’ll be thinking about.

ON THE FLY

For more than fifty years I have been shooting out the car window while driving. As crazy as this sounds it may be a lot safer than talking on a cellphone while driving, not to mention texting, or putting on makeup, which I once read is the largest cause of traffic accidents in Los Angeles on a daily basis.

My first ‘from the moving car photos’ were made from my VW bus back in 1964 when I drove all around America on my first long car trip. What was so amazing about this revelation – that one could shoot while driving – was that I saw myself driving as if I was inside of the camera, and that the car window was the lens, and that life was streaming by me and all I needed to do was to raise my camera and reach out for it, and then the irretrievable moment was snatched out of the passage of time.

I have made many thousands of images this way and I never tire of the challenge and the surprises that show up on film, or now, the screen. This moment was just what you see. A migration or flight of uncountable numbers of birds, flickering in sunlight and then gone.