I'm a hunter stalking its prey
Carefully aligning my subject in the frame
Waiting for the perfect moment
Snap, trigger pressed
Snap, snap, it's mine
And yet a camera is not a gun at all
A gun destroys, a camera preserves
Celebrates the moment for living eyes
All from one mechanical distorting eye
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
A lack of time
After numerous attempts to write just the right piece for my photo collage, I feel at a loss. After all my attempts I have only written one piece that I like (previously). One may think great as one is all you need, and yes they would be right. The trouble is that there is no way that I can illustrate the poem using photography by the end of semester, especially when there are some challenges topics in the poem. I realise that I could take a more symbolic approach and this could actually work well. I have to however be very realistic and accept that it would be a year long project and not a 12 week one. I will not give up on the idea, instead store it away for when time is more a friend than an adversity.
Thankfully I had been taking lots of photographs with the intent of self improvement and a collection of pics for the collages. Now I start to look back at the work and hope that a new line of work will emerge.
Thankfully I had been taking lots of photographs with the intent of self improvement and a collection of pics for the collages. Now I start to look back at the work and hope that a new line of work will emerge.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Writing for a possible portfolio idea
Bloodshed, mayhem and destruction was what the humans brought.
The trees wept: the cruelty, the loss.
The silent witnesses to the madness of man.
Strong and resilient they stand until ripped from their land.
The trees bleed unnoticed. And yet they notice all.
It was not just for their family that they wept but for the fallen and suffering.
They watched and cried for those furred covered ones caught in metal jaws and left trapped and dying for the longest moments of time.
And for what.
They prayed for the feathered ones who lived out their existence caged, their chemical bodies distorted and broken.
And for what.
They sheltered the remains of those whose screams pierced the air and were not shown mercy.
And for what.
The trees saw all the hurt, the apathy, the drive to tear each other and all apart.
And they wondered for what.
This is the madness of man.
The dark side of their nature, a destructive and relentless force that festers within, hungry and urgent.
With every passing moment of time the trees saw the humans only take thanklessly and with perceived entitlement.
The trees only gave.
They felt man distance himself from them, like nature was a disease where the only cure was to eradicate.
And so the divide came, a wound that would not heal.
Man's feet no longer touched the ground, skin and bark did not meet.
Destruction and detachment, and so the divide widened; a tear that ripped through the soul of this world.
The trees stood silent and still caring, strong they withstood for the longest of time.
They watched and listened and knew that with time ever shortening they would no longer be the last to stand.
The trees wept: the cruelty, the loss.
The silent witnesses to the madness of man.
Strong and resilient they stand until ripped from their land.
The trees bleed unnoticed. And yet they notice all.
It was not just for their family that they wept but for the fallen and suffering.
They watched and cried for those furred covered ones caught in metal jaws and left trapped and dying for the longest moments of time.
And for what.
They prayed for the feathered ones who lived out their existence caged, their chemical bodies distorted and broken.
And for what.
They sheltered the remains of those whose screams pierced the air and were not shown mercy.
And for what.
The trees saw all the hurt, the apathy, the drive to tear each other and all apart.
And they wondered for what.
This is the madness of man.
The dark side of their nature, a destructive and relentless force that festers within, hungry and urgent.
With every passing moment of time the trees saw the humans only take thanklessly and with perceived entitlement.
The trees only gave.
They felt man distance himself from them, like nature was a disease where the only cure was to eradicate.
And so the divide came, a wound that would not heal.
Man's feet no longer touched the ground, skin and bark did not meet.
Destruction and detachment, and so the divide widened; a tear that ripped through the soul of this world.
The trees stood silent and still caring, strong they withstood for the longest of time.
They watched and listened and knew that with time ever shortening they would no longer be the last to stand.
Monday, April 5, 2010
My Response to Waves 1958-60 by Berenice Abbott
Exquisitely mysterious ripple like waves fill the frame. Limited shades of grey have never been so alluring. It captivates and mesmerises, it engages and provokes. It is simply complex and complexly simply. Like a fly in a web I am caught in the form. Time has lost all meaning, I am hypnotised by the swirl ... lost and powerless. That is the power of the line, the repetition, the luminescence. the power of the waves.
- Tempest -
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Looking for direction
I have found that my mind constantly drifts to a question, “what to do for my portfolio?” I know I could take my usual photos of flora and be happy with the pieces that result, such as photos like ‘Alien life form” ... and yet this is my comfort place. If I stay there how do I extend myself? Am I not closing myself off to world of opportunities ... a photo that I am truly proud of?
With intent I take the large step out of the shelter of comfort and into the weather. Now I have to find a new self; this scares and delights me. Unsure where to go now I turn to my writing, hoping that just the right words will come to me like winged saviours. So I have been writing poetry recently as a direction for my folio with the intention of then taking photos to use as a photo collage that reflects the heart of the words. All I have to hope is that I find the rights words.
With intent I take the large step out of the shelter of comfort and into the weather. Now I have to find a new self; this scares and delights me. Unsure where to go now I turn to my writing, hoping that just the right words will come to me like winged saviours. So I have been writing poetry recently as a direction for my folio with the intention of then taking photos to use as a photo collage that reflects the heart of the words. All I have to hope is that I find the rights words.
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