I keep playing with this image. It’s like poetry. I’ve written and published bit of poetry and was asked once how you know when a poem is finished. I said a poem is finished when its beat you to death and there’s no more left for you to put into it.
Some photographs are the same. There are those that I know exactly what I want to see when it’s done then there are those that just keep praying on your mind so you go back to it over and over trying different things until the picture revels itself. I find that this happens most on photographs that I passed over the first time I sorted shots. I’m just not in tune with it at the sorting time but later I see it and all of a sudden something popes out. The mystery of art or maybe better, the mystery of the mind.
Here is a sample of a poem that isn’t cooked yet. I keep them in the “not finished” folder on my computer.
I see blue sky
The cold sets in.
But today the sky is blue.
I live for blue.
My chest. A thousand pounds
What useless emotions.
Wasted and wasting me.
Where is peace?
Under the rubble of broken buildings in Haiti,
Shaken by God’s hand? Maybe.
The year ends. I look for that strand to pull myself into the next.