He is very competent, his work is technically flawless, and woman can he compose a frame! And for the most part I find his subjects intriguing. Yet I can’t stand his photographs.
This has irritated me more and for a longer period of time than I care to admit, but stumbling across his work by coincidence recently finally showed me why. In every photograph of his I see a hint—hardly visible but unmistaken nevertheless—of arrogance, and cleverness. And apathy.
There—time to move on.
Oh, and emphasis on “I see”. That doesn’t necessarly mean that other people do, or that what I see is the objective truth.
Remember the two wolfes?
The wolfes from that internet story that has its fifteen minutes of fame every now and then, in somewhat different versions?
Anyway, the wolfes have something of a lead role in this story being told by—sometimes an old indian to a grandchild, sometimes just a grandfather, no race or political status specified.
And it’s about the ongoing fight of the two wolfs we all carry with within ourselves and how one is good and kind and gentle and the other is evil, mean, resentful and whatnot, and at the end of the story the kid asks, “who wins”, to which the grandfather wisely answers, “the one you feed”.
I didn’t expect this story to turn up in my inbox but recently it did, underneath the hood of a newsletter that comes each week, one that I rarely read but I read the beginning of this one, probably just because I quickly noticed the story. And cliché as it is, it was just what I needed, because I know this wolf and it’s been getting fat.
So many drafts now. Not all of them swollen with pessimism and negativity, but most. I will not write a single word before I finish them, all of them—or delete. This was a lie.
No longer will I complain about a sore heel here, or a blister on a toe there. You kept me dry. I love you.
(A little afraid to look at you right now, but I do love you.)
Before, I would buy bad coffee for twenty five to satisfy a small portion of the need for human interaction. The coffee was terrible, but “would you like a bun with that?” and “that’ll be twenty five then” was more than worth it. Nowadays I have push notifications that, although they originate from computer systems, appear as if there is another human out there, interacting, and I get to receive her message.
Don’t know why I stopped buying awful coffee, the need hasn’t gone anywhere and push notifications only achieve so much. There should be an answer to that.
In two thousand and six I shot jpegs with a Nikon D100 at ISO 1250 and though it was lovely. Sure the chroma noise was enough to make a grown man weep—no, let’s not get into grown men and their weeping. Besides, even back then there were decent tools available to deal with chroma noise and image quality is certainly not the issue here.
Southernland, that will never become the set of images that I can’t seem to stop hoping it to become. Southernland that will always be a giant note–to–self, lurking away on a hard drive, about a set of dos and don’ts.
Damn you Southernland.
If I were John Grant I’d be writing a song with the words “I am the bottom of the North Sea” in it.
Not John Grant, but he is
Not John Grant, I’m Kenny Chesney, romanticizing high–school bullying and middle aged men desperate to live the dream of their life through their offsprings
(Sorry about that)
As much as I would love to claim that I wasn’t at all mr. Chesney I’m afraid that wouldn’t be entirely true but ok, not a complete Chesney but Polly Jean doing what Polly Jean does
None of the above
Bottom of the North Sea
Welcome autumn—honestest of seasons.
Outside, yesterday, I decided that I wanted to die outside.
Perhaps decided that I wanted doesn’t carry much meaning, and perhaps speaking in meaningless terms is just a means of avoiding to deal with the concept of one day coming to an end.
What I’m trying to say is that at the time, that was how I felt. Not in a hurry, not there and then, but when the time comes.
To what an extent I will be the boss of my own death remains to be seen. Presumably a lot less than I would like to think.
But when this is outside I can understand what I mean.
There is this kid standing in the bookstore. Fiddling with art supplies, different coloured pencils, papers. Glancing over at the magazines.
He doesn’t realize this himself but he needs nothing more than to be noticed, that somebody—a complete stranger even—will see him, acknowledge him.
None of the other people in the bookstore realize this either and after a while he looses interest in what’s in the shelves and leaves.