2. “It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends,” Joan Didion wrote. With my love for photography, its beginnings are harder to see and its ends I easily believe will never come. Perhaps my love is like that of a child to her mother: so innate it abounds undetected. In fact, my earliest memories of photography involve my mother. It is her photo of a Nepalese girl that still sears my mind: dirt clinging to her skin, hair matted against her face, dressed in rough, tearing burlap. She stares back with kohl-smeared eyes: haunting, sad, uncomfortably beautiful.

    When not gazing at old photographs, my mother subjected my brother and me to her lens. “In Nepal, you must ask to take a photograph,” she told us. “Otherwise, they believe you’re stealing their soul.” From then on, my brother refused to pose for her.

    I would find out later, the photo of the Nepalese girl was taken with a telephoto lens. My mother never asked for permission. Still, she stares so directly into the camera. As if knowing her photo was being taken, as if wanting to be captured.

    I tell you this only because I realize my beliefs about photography, good photography, hinge upon that old photo and that old story. Photos should provide an element of escape: a medium to experience and relish in beauty, in an irreplaceable moment. But escape without reflection  - of reality, the subject, the self, and hopefully, humanity - remains artifice and artifice disinterests me. Unkempt rawness in a photo attracts me: the capture and reveal of the subject’s soul – so piercing, the beholders own breaks in two.


  3. "Very little grows on jagged rock.
    Be ground.  Be crumbled.
    So wild flowers will come up
    Where you are.

    You have been stony for too many years.
    Try something different.

    - Rumi



  5. modusops:

    Passing Showers.

    Monet by Mark





  9. My dear,
    Find what you love and let it kill you.
    Let it drain you of your all.
    Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
    Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
    For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
    — Charles Bukowski