not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

the photo


there is a photograph that is waiting inside of me.  i know what it looks like, or what it seems like, but i do not know what the photograph is of.  the thing that it is of is irrelevant, or so it seems to me.  there is great space in this photograph but not emptiness.  there is vaguely shape, somewhat direction - outward, onward, and yet it suggests inward too from a bottom shelf in me, soft tones, and light, obscured light, diffused light, emanating, inviting, allowing light.  others take this photograph and i look and recognize this yearning in myself but i can not see where to take this picture in my life.  there are so many solids in my life.  there is so much being.  this photograph that i wait for, that i yearn for, is beneath the being of all things, as though it is springtime and i am a young blind woman opening the door, stepping out onto the warm grass, anticipating scent.


6 comments:

  1. Surely the most original post that I ever saw on a photo blog.
    :-)) Beautiful, Erin. XXX

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  2. thanks nadja. i think i'd rather the photo itself but i can not find it. is there a camera that can catch what pulsates inside? most likely though it is something i am lacking in seeing. i see it with my spirit, but not my eye.

    xo
    erin

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  3. I don't know Erin, but, I think every camera catches what vibrates inside! So that it shows in every picture. Maybe what vibrates inside, is just to big, to catch it in his whole, in 1 picture. But, I think, we as spectators, get a good idea, when looking at your blog. :-)) XXX

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  4. Space but not emptiness. It aches just thinking about it. Hard enough to find or make or keep - but for anyone else to see it, feel it, understand it, accept it, nourish it...

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  5. excellent - these green life filled bits in the blackened cracks of rocks...

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  6. yes!!

    ... but if you found this picture, if you took this picture ... would you stop looking then???

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"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))