BirchLane.net
June 2006
Friday 30
Yesterday. (Notes
to self: Bruce be sure to write about yesterday. You must. But
get some sleep first. And when you wake, eat breakfast; all you
consumed yesterday was a cup of coffee, an iced chai, and a
thimble-sized glass of wine. You want to get this all down:
sitting in Bryant Park, the Weegee exhibition, the job
interview.
Thursday 29
Job Interview in New
York City or Wild Goose Chase?
Wednesday 28
More Rain Today. Heavy Rain. (And more rain tomorrow;
and I have an interview in New York City; guess I should bring
an umbrella and wear my raincoat; at least my suit still fits--I
must have lost some weight!)
Experimenting in
Photoshop (1972 Action):
Tuesday 27
Picnic in the Park.
My stitches came out this morning. Thank God I can use my
fingers. Although the area where the knife went in and briefly
rested feels quite dead.
Danielle and Daisy came
over and we went for a walk. And then I edited photos from
Saturday's wedding.
Also: watched both World
Cup games today.
Monday 26
Wise Men Fish Here.
The photo below was taken at The Outer Banks but I am now
reminded of a journal entry from a few years ago when I wrote:
| Patricia Beer, a
British poet concerned with death, theology and the
mysteries of everyday existence, died on August 15.
She was 79. I had not heard of her until I read her
obit in The New York Times. She was born on November
4, 1919, in Exmouth, Devon. She was brought up by
members of the strict Plymouth Brethren sect; her
first poems were hymns. She went to Exeter
University and received a degree in literature from
Oxford University. She taught English at the
University of Padua in Italy from1947 to 1949, and
at the British Institute in Rome from 1949 to 1951.
She returned to England in 1953 and taught at the
University of London. She also reviewed books for
The Daily Telegraph in the 1980's and contributed to
The London Review of Books. In addition to her books
of poetry, she wrote one novel, a childhood memoir,
and a study of the female characters of Charlotte
Bronte, Jane Austen, Elizabeth Gaskell and George
Elliot. I have
been searching for her books to buy since I read
about her in the Times. I suppose I could have
looked at Amazon, but I wanted the thrill of
discovery, of walking into a store, looking through
the stacks, and finding her books, any book. And I
had such a thrill yesterday at Gotham Book
Mark. Located in the heart of the Diamond
District, on East 47th Street, between Fifth and
Sixth Avenues (the store with the small wooden sign
out front that read "Wise Men Fish Here")
this wonderful haven for out-of-print titles, first
editions, rare books, and new books, was first
opened in the 1920s by Frances Steloff. Gotham was
one of the leaders in the fight against censorship,
stocking banned books by James Joyce, D.H. Lawrence
and Henry Miller. It's a dusty store and it's
delightful.
Here, from Patrica
Beer's Driving West (1975),
Middle Age:
- Middle age at
last declares itself
- As the time when
could-have-been
- Is not wishful
thinking any more,
- Is not, say: I
could have been at Oxford
- If my parents
had been richer
- Or if the
careers mistress had not thought
- Exeter was good
enough for me.
-
- It is not
misunderstanding either
- As when at night
in the first year of the war
- Bombs could have
been thunder
- And later on in
peace
- Thunder could
have been bombs.
- Sights and
sounds are more themselves now.
-
- There have been
real alternatives.
- They have put on
weight and yet faded.
-
- Evening walks go
past
- Where we could
have lived:
- The coach-house
that the mortage company
- Said had too
much charm
- And not enough
rooms.
-
- Everywhere I
look it is the same,
- The churchyard
or the other side of the bed.
- The one who is
not lying there
- Could have been.
|
Sunday 25
Weddings. Today I
watched soccer, wrote a long poem, worked on editing photographs
(will be linked at Saturday's entry) from yesterday's wedding
(note to self: think of The
New York Observer for new wedding and portrait markets;
advertising in it is, amazingly so, less expensive than
advertising in Western Massachusetts) and
edited other photos.From today's New York Times:
On Monday, Modigliani's portrait of Jeanne
Hébuterne sold at Sotheby's in London for $30
million, the second-highest price paid for a
Modigliani at auction. Klimt's portrait of Adele
Bloch-Bauer, whose relationship with the artist was
described as "intellectual" by her sister, as
something more and less by others, sold recently for
$135 million, a record price for any painting. And
Picasso's portrait of Dora Maar sold in New York
last month for $95 million, a price second only to
the Klimt's.
What didn't happen between
artist and muse can be as
provocative as what did.
"I'm thinking of the
John Singer Sargent
portraits of Lady
Cholmondeley," said Gary
Tinterow, curator in charge
of modern art at the
Metropolitan Museum. "I
don't think for a minute
that they ever had sex, but
they obviously had a very
close bond. And his
portraits of her are
exceptional among his
portraits of beautiful
women."
"It
stands
to
reason
that the
most
successful
portraits
are
passionately
felt,
and
everything
follows
from
that,"
Mr. Tinterow
said.
"So it's
not
always
about
sex.
Other
passions
can be
engaged."
|
Saturday 24
Suzanne & Tully. I
checked in with the bridal party early Saturday morning and
started photographing them at the Hotel Northampton in the early
afternoon.
(adding photos here; link to come)
The Bride:
Flower girl and
ring-bearer (sister and brother):
Friday 23
Echoes and Mirages.
The Radiant Buddha said:
Regard this fleeting world like this:
Like stars fading and vanishing at dawn,
like bubbles on a fast moving stream,
like morning dewdrops evaporating on blades of grass,
like a candle flickering in a strong wind,
echoes, mirages and phantoms, hallucinations,
and like a dream.
- The Eight Similes of Illusion,
from The Prajna Paramita Sutras
This made
me smile.
Thursday 22
Once Upon a Time I
worked in New York City. Next week I interview with a company in
the city to be their Massachusetts representative.
This morning Daryl came over and we watched
the The United States be eliminated from the World Cup in a 2-1
defeat to Ghana. The U.S. tied the score with a goal late in the
first half, only to fall behind again minutes later on a
controversial call that awarded Ghana a penalty kick.
Later, I worked on my Famous People Famous
Places portfolio and then edited some other photos, some
what inspired by
Harry Callahan's work, which I have always loved.
And much to my surprise I saw this on the net
today:
Wednesday 21
One Year Ago: (Ah,
that saying again: The more things change the more they stay the
same.)
Summer. It
was a very long day.
Daily Words of the Buddha
June 21, 2005
One is not low because of birth
nor does birth make one holy.
Deeds alone make one low,
deeds alone make one holy.
Sutta Nipata 136
And this:
And photos of Courtney:
Tuesday 20
Hours After Danielle
Came Over. Danielle and Daisy came over this morning and we
had a pleasant walk on the Manhan Trail/Bike Path. We need to do
this more often. With Daryl, too. Soon after she left, it
started to rain and late in the afternoon, this:
And then:
Monday 19
Famous People. Famous
Places. And Change. A book of poems arrived in today's mail.
My brother sent the book. It is from
The Poet's Press.
The book is called "Emily
and Walt, Walt and Emily" by John Burnett Payne. My brother
wrote the forward. In the book there is a poem about me; John
and I never met.
ANOTHER RAMAPOE
MOUNTAIN GHOST
for Dennis Barone
Sometimes one Ramapoe Mountain ghost
may be confused with another.
A desk clerk in the Dayton Howard Johnson motel
reports renting a room
to Alice and his rattlesnake
only to have both vanish before dawn.
He knows about wily shape-shifters,
having minored in the occult
while studying hotel administration at Cornell.
Curators of the Huntington Library
in San Marino
are baffled
by an empty peanut butter jar
found on top of a glass display case
containing drawings by William Blake.
Members of the Church
of the Second Coming of William Blake
in New Harmony, Indiana,
share a religious experience
when a Blake-appearing figure
turns up in the middle
of an otherwise dull service,
passes out copies
of a monograph on Blake
as if they were hymnals,
and then recites from memory
long passages of Blake's apocalyptic writing.
Later, the beadle of the Church
wonders if the young man
could accidentally have dropped
his worry beads in the collection plate.
Simultaneously,
a quiet household in Ramsey, N.J.,
is shaken
by the apparition of an older son,
returned far too soon and implausibly
from California,
his immediate presence
hard to reconcile
with reported sightings
in so many other places.
His knapsack full of copies
of his scholarly monograph on Blake
remains where he dumped it
on the living room floor.
With Andy Hardy affection
he greets the family collie.
The dog is too dignified
to bark at any ghost of Mickey Rooney.
For a Ramapoe Mountain ghost,
his appetite is excellent.
He has lost none of his zest
for peanut butter.
He is playing
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
with all of his usual
corporeal affection for the Beatles.
He is making long distance calls
to friends in the Berkshires
lonely in communes.
He is writing love poems.
He believes his heart is broken.
He may be turning
into another ghostly lover.
His father finds
communication with the ghost
about as smooth and easy
as talk with any older son has ever been.
His sister and his brother simply laugh,
glad to see him,
whatever shape he may be in,
however fragmented.
They are willing to share a brother
with all of America,
a ghost, if necessary,
with members of the Ramsey household.
His family understood
when he said
he had to split.
They knew what graduate school,
involvement with William Blake,
could do to any young man,
son or brother.
They remember his boyish love
for dog stories by Albert Payson Terhune,
his accelerated graduation to Blake
and apocalyptic visions.
They saw him leave,
outwardly intact,
a tiger willing to burn bright,
risk the shattering of fearful symmetry,
on secondary roads in Jersey in December.
He took off with a beloved rattlesnake skin,
worry beads,
eleven dollars,
The Songs of Innocence and the Songs of Experience,
his knapsack filled with copies
of his scholarly monograph on Blake
and a jar of peanut butter.
I spent a lot of time
today thinking about what images to mat and put into my Times
Square (Famous People Famous Places) portfolio. I talked
with Shelley and Rob at
Sky Lake
Studios about sizing and signing issues. I did some research
online and 20-26 seems to be the right number and the more I
think about the number than more I think the portfolio images
need to truly be of people and places that are forever gone. It
is an editing process and I am sure I will be editing and
editing this week, fine-tuning, finding the right 20-26 images.
I am not sure these first two are right for the portfolio (the
book, yes, but I like looking at them so here they are):
And I was hired to
photograph another wedding today. And in the early evening a
storm passed over Eastworks.
Sunday 18
Father's Day. My
father would have loved today's weather. It is hot--very hot.
Saturday 17
Studio 19.
How could it take me so long to "get it"
regarding Studio 19. The physical gallery is so secondary to
what it is, what I SHOULD BE DOING--and that is getting out and
selling some of this art work I own, especially the Times Square
images. Think also of my friend
Smith Eliot. This woman
is GREAT! She will be (I hope) sending me a portfolio and I know a few
gallery directors in NYC..... It really comes back to being an
internet-based business (art sales and book publication) and a
business name/identity/brand to get appointments with
collectors/buyers. Jesus, I went to an engagement party at a
Fifth Avenue apartment across the street from the MET (a
friend's party from college; she's friends with this woman)
about five years ago; a well-connected woman and big art collector in the
city. What in Gods' name have I been thinking???!!! Nothing. The
whole Tea thing could be another way to get local collectors in
(in addition to simply having friends over, etc). I
feel like a light bulb just got turned on and it is obviously
what I need to both be happy and make some money, in addition to
the whole wedding/portrait gig. I am excited. I feel like I just
crawled out from under a rock--in a good way.
Friday 16
Is There A Full Moon
Out and About? Why am I so depressed?
Found art:
Thursday 15
Easier Said Than Done.
Feelings, whether
of compassion or irritation, should be welcomed,
recognized, and treated on an absolutely equal
basis; because both are ourselves. The tangerine I
am eating is me. The mustard greens I am planting
are me. I plant with all my heart and mind. I clean
this teapot with the kind of attention I would have
were I giving the baby Buddha or Jesus a bath.
Nothing should be treated more carefully than
anything else. In mindfulness, compassion,
irritation, mustard green plant, and teapot are all
sacred.
~Thich Nhat Hanh, "Miracle of Mindfulness" |
Wednesday 14
Change. It is a
popular saying ("The more things change, the more they stay the
same."), but I don't think it is true--at least in my life.
(add more here)
Tuesday 13
My Newsletter and The
Monster in the Pond. I got a great reaction to
my newsletter
today. In fact, one person wrote:
Dear Bruce, GOOD MORNING!
THANK YOU for sharing your newsletter. I am awed by
your images,
including the 'favorite portraits' which are
absolutely enthrallingly sensational!!!
Also, I am most certainly going to buy your Times
Square Images book just as soon
as it appears. You make life more beautiful
indeed!!!
Thank you. |
And another writes:
Bravo Bruce,
Your work is great. I like how your artist's eye is
both an editor and an inventor. Inventor not in the
sense of creating what is not there, but in the
sense of picking up on what is implied or inferred,
and amplifying that into a deliberate
characterization. Surely what is inferred is a s
important as what some might say "really is." Geez,
I didn't mean for that to sound so "art history." I
just mean to compliment you on your gorgeous
portraiture. Just curious, do you find it more of a
challenge to shoot men? |
The answer to that question is
no--generally speaking. Some men are very relaxed in front of
the camera, others are not. A dream of mine would be to
photograph men of all one profession in another city; say, chefs
or janitors--not that women do not work in those jobs but a
series of men would be fun. All that said, I have found women to
be more relaxed than men. But I did love photographing these
brothers:
Last night, however, late
last night, I received horrible
news from a friend here in
Easthampton about my beloved pond. Or maybe it is good news: a
monster, it is rumored, lurks in The Lower Mill Pond.
Here's a photo he sent:
I guess this means I ought
to spend more time at the pond--looking and photographing; maybe
I missed it one day when I was too busy doing something else,
but damn, I think it behooves me to grab a beach chair and sit
and wait and wait and wait.
Monday 12
Dee, Frank, and My
Newsletter. I met with Dee and Frank this morning to talk
about their wedding album. They seemed pleased, happy, with my
photos. And later in the day I said, "Bruce, get your
newsletter written!"
Sunday 11
No Picture Taking
Today. This from Dee's Wedding:
I meet with Frank and Dee
Monday morning to talk about their wedding photographs.
Saturday 10
Rain but I went outside
anyway.
A summary:
Nadine, low light, 1600 ISO:
Friday 09
Silly me. I was
shocked at how quickly the blood gushed from the wound. The
kitchen sink and the kitchen counter were covered with blood and
the bathroom floor was covered with blood, too. I thought a
band-aid might help. Silly me. I wrapped my hand in paper
towels. Blood was still running down my arm. Strange, I thought.
I turned my hand around and saw the second wound; the wound
where the knife punctured the skin; one going in and one going
out. It all happened so quickly. I was trying to separate frozen
hamburgers and the next thing I knew the knife slipped from
between the hamburger patties and sunk into my hand. Ouch. I
drove myself to the emergency room. And now a bunch of stitches
later (and a Tetanus shot), my arm is throbbing and, well, a
lesson learned. Silly me. No major nerve damage and I did
manage to take this photo:
Thursday 08
Wednesday 07
|
Live your life as though there us
great joy to be experienced......an abundance of
goodness in each person you come in contact with,
and the knowledge that you have enough inner wisdom
to answer the mysteries that challenge you.
~Meladee
McCarty |
Syrie
Kovitz Photography
Greg
Lotus Photography
Tuesday 06
Photoshop Actions.
I have much to learn but this action I got from my friend in
Australia, Anjella
Roessler. This morning, my neighbor, David, told me their were baby swans
(cygnets) down at The Lower Mill Pond. Late in the afternoon I
went to the pond and there they were!!!
Monday 05
Pursuing a career in
art. Those words are at the end of the newspaper wedding announcement
from some 29 years ago that I found in my Dad's apartment--and here
I am today still pursuing a career in art. Yes, they were
periods, long periods, when I worked as a Marketing Director or
Business Development Specialist, but art was always in my heart
and soul. It is difficult making ends meet right now but a few
more weddings will get me where I need to be and there is no
doubt that I love this work--the weddings, the portraits, the
fine art photography. It is who I am. I continue to apply for part-time work but
there is simply not many opportunities for me; I have, however,
applied for a few short-term photo projects (scanning and
archiving a private collection of images, for example) in New
York City.
My friend, Rob, from
Sky Lake Studios,
helped me load a few new actions into Photoshop this afternoon
and below is my first experiment. These "actions" require a
great amount of time and once my wedding season gets rolling,
most of my time (when not shooting) will be spent altering the
images in Photoshop so that I can present a "Story Book" to my
customers.
Sunday 04
Graduation Party.
Overall it was a beautiful day and it was filled with great
moments of joy; seeing so many of Danielle's and Daryl's
friends, for example. I am (we all are) so proud of the two of
them; they are bright, happy, and possess wonderful personalities. I
still, however, find it so difficult to engage in a conversation
for any length of time. At times during the day a feeling
melancholy descended upon me, like the drizzle which fell
throughout the day, as we all missed my Dad and at times
could not help but think of him and say, "It's different without
your Dad here." But Betsy and her friend John did a
marvelous job preparing the day's activities and I am very
appreciative of their efforts.
My brother hugged me when I left the party. He cried, and
he said,
"I love you. We all love you."
Saturday 03
Rain Rain Rain.
Friday 02
A work that aspires, however humbly, to the
condition of art should carry its justification in
every line. And art itself may be defined as a
single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of
justice to the visible universe, by bringing to
light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its
every aspect. It is an attempt to find in its forms,
in its colors, in its light, in its shadows, in the
aspects of matter and in the facts of life what of
each is fundamental, what is enduring and
essential--their one illuminating and convincing
quality--the very truth of their existence. The
artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist,
seeks the truth and makes his appeal. Impressed by
the aspect of the world the thinker plunges into
ideas, the scientist into facts--whence, presently,
emerging they make their appeal to those qualities
of our being that fit us best for the hazardous
enterprise of living. They speak authoritatively to
our common-sense, to our intelligence, to our desire
of peace or to our desire of unrest; not seldom to
our prejudices, sometimes to our fears, often to our
egoism--but always to our credulity. And their words
are heard with reverence, for their concern is with
weighty matters: with the cultivation of our minds
and the proper care of our bodies, with the
attainment of our ambitions, with the perfection of
the means and the glorification of our precious
aims.
It is otherwise with the artist.
Confronted by the same enigmatical spectacle the
artist descends within himself, and in that lonely
region of stress and strife, if he be deserving and
fortunate, he finds the terms of his appeal. His
appeal is made to our less obvious capacities: to
that part of our nature which, because of the
warlike conditions of existence, is necessarily kept
out of sight within the more resisting and hard
qualities--like the vulnerable body within a steel
armor. His appeal is less loud, more profound, less
distinct, more stirring--and sooner forgotten. Yet
its effect endures forever. The changing wisdom of
successive generations discards ideas, questions
facts, demolishes theories. But the artist appeals
to that part of our being which is not dependent on
wisdom; to that in us which is a gift and not an
acquisition--and, therefore, more permanently
enduring. He speaks to our capacity for delight and
wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our
lives; to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain;
to the latent feeling of fellowship with all
creation--and to the subtle but invincible
conviction of solidarity that knits together the
loneliness of innumerable hearts, to the solidarity
in dreams, in joy, in sorrow, in aspirations, in
illusions, in hope, in fear, which binds men to each
other, which binds together all humanity--the dead
to the living and the living to the unborn.
It is only some such train of thought, or rather of
feeling, that can in a measure explain the aim of
the attempt, made in the tale which follows, to
present an unrestful episode in the obscure lives of
a few individuals out of all the disregarded
multitude of the bewildered, the simple and the
voiceless. For, if any part of truth dwells in the
belief confessed above, it becomes evident that
there is not a place of splendor or a dark corner of
the earth that does not deserve, if only a passing
glance of wonder and pity. The motive then, may be
held to justify the matter of the work; but this
preface, which is simply an avowal of endeavor,
cannot end here--for the avowal is not yet complete.
Fiction--if it at all aspires to be art--appeals to
temperament. And in truth it must be, like painting,
like music, like all art, the appeal of one
temperament to all the other innumerable
temperaments whose subtle and resistless power
endows passing events with their true meaning, and
creates the moral, the emotional atmosphere of the
place and time. Such an appeal to be effective must
be an impression conveyed through the senses; and,
in fact, it cannot be made in any other way, because
temperament, whether individual or collective, is
not amenable to persuasion. All art, therefore,
appeals primarily to the senses, and the artistic
aim when expressing itself in written words must
also make its appeal through the senses, if its high
desire is to reach the secret spring of responsive
emotions. It must strenuously aspire to the
plasticity of sculpture, to the color of painting,
and to the magic suggestiveness of music--which is
the art of arts. And it is only through complete,
unswerving devotion to the perfect blending of form
and substance; it is only through an unremitting
never-discouraged care for the shape and ring of
sentences that an approach can be made to
plasticity, to color, and that the light of magic
suggestiveness may be brought to play for an
evanescent instant over the commonplace surface of
words: of the old, old words, worn thin, defaced by
ages of careless usage.
The sincere endeavor to accomplish that creative
task, to go as far on that road as his strength will
carry him, to go undeterred by faltering, weariness
or reproach, is the only valid justification for the
worker in prose. And if his conscience is clear, his
answer to those who in the fullness of a wisdom
which looks for immediate profit, demand
specifically to be edified, consoled, amused; who
demand to be promptly improved, or encouraged, or
frightened, or shocked, or charmed, must run
thus:--My task which I am trying to achieve is, by
the power of the written word to make you hear, to
make you feel--it is, before all, to make you see.
That--and no more, and it is everything. If I
succeed, you shall find there according to your
deserts: encouragement, consolation, fear,
charm--all you demand--and, perhaps, also that
glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to
ask.
To snatch in a moment of courage, from the
remorseless rush of time, a passing phase of life,
is only the beginning of the task. The task
approached in tenderness and faith is to hold up
unquestioningly, without choice and without fear,
the rescued fragment before all eyes in the light of
a sincere mood. It is to show its vibration, its
color, its form; and through its movement, its form,
and its color, reveal the substance of its
truth-disclose its inspiring secret: the stress and
passion within the core of each convincing moment.
In a single-minded attempt of that kind, if one be
deserving and fortunate, one may perchance attain to
such clearness of sincerity that at last the
presented vision of regret or pity, of terror or
birth, shall awaken in the hearts of the beholders
that feeling of unavoidable solidarity; of the
solidarity in mysterious origin, in toil, in joy, in
hope, in uncertain fate, which binds men to each
other and all mankind to the visible world.
It is evident that he who, rightly or wrongly, holds
by the convictions expressed above cannot be
faithful to any one of the temporary formulas of his
craft. The enduring part of them--the truth which
each only imperfectly veils--should abide with him
as the most precious of his possessions, but they
all: Realism, Romanticism, Naturalism, even the
unofficial sentimentalism (which like the poor, is
exceedingly difficult to get rid of), all these gods
must, after a short period of fellowship, abandon
him--even on the very threshold of the temple--to
the stammerings of his conscience and to the
outspoken consciousness of the difficulties of his
work. In that uneasy solitude the supreme cry of Art
for Art itself, loses the exciting ring of its
apparent immorality. It sounds far off. It has
ceased to be a cry, and is heard only as a whisper,
often incomprehensible, but at times and faintly
encouraging.
Sometimes, stretched at ease in the shade of a
roadside tree, we watch the begin to wonder motions
of a laborer in a distant field, and after a time,
movements of his languidly as to what the fellow may
be at. We watch the body, the waving of his arms, we
see him bend down, stand up, hesitate, begin again.
It may add to the charm of an idle hour to be told
the purpose of his exertions. If we know he is
trying to lift a stone, to dig a ditch, to uproot a
stump, we look with a more real interest at his
efforts; we are disposed to condone the jar of his
agitation upon the restfulness of the landscape; and
even, if in a brotherly frame of mind, we may -bring
ourselves to forgive his failure. We understood his
object, and, after all, the fellow has tried, and
perhaps he had not the strength--and perhaps he had
not the knowledge. We forgive, go on our way--and
forget.
And so it is with the workman of art. Art is long
and life is short, and success is very far off. And
thus, doubtful of strength to travel so far, we talk
a little about the aim--the aim of art, which, like
life itself, is inspiring, difficult--obscured by
mists. It is not in the clear logic of a triumphant
conclusion; it is not in the unveiling of one of
those heartless secrets which are called the Laws of
Nature. It is not less great, but only more
difficult.
To arrest, for the space of a breath, the hands busy
about the work of the earth, and compel men
entranced by the sight of distant goals to glance
for a moment at the surrounding vision of form and
color, of sunshine and shadows; to make them pause
for a look, for a sigh, for a smile--such is the
aim, difficult and evanescent, and reserved only for
a few to achieve. But sometimes, by the deserving
and the fortunate, even that task is accomplished
And when it is accomplished--behold!--all the truth
of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh, a
smile--and the return to an eternal rest.
-- Joseph Conrad
Preface to 'The Nigger of The Narcissus' |
Thursday 01
Light. I am working
on shooting in low-light.
