Walking in the winter with Diana and Brendan; I'm not going to not see the Callahan trees surrounding me. Automatic. Can't help it. I know it's cliche. Sorry about that. But there's history here too. The contrast, the sequence, the rhythm, the simplicity. Those Callahan pictures from the 1950s resonate for me; they come to back to me from my earliest thoughts of pictures and photography. Do an image google if you're not sure what I'm talking about. And do you remember the conversation that's in the background, especially of the series of weeds in snow? The story as I recall it is around Callahan's introduction to photography at a workshop in Detroit by Ansel Adams. Apparently there was a long discussion about how to expose properly for snow — how to keep the detail in the negative but not underexpose, how to compensate in the developing, how to print it just down enough to make it feel bright but not too bright. Even if you've never done ...
Hiroshi Sunari is giving trees to friends and artists who can engage a dream. About LEUR L'EXISTENCE * Tree Project , he says, The trees that still live from the time of the atomic bombing in Hiroshima are called, Hibaku trees (A-bombed trees). In 2009, tree doctor Riki Horiguchi gave me about 250-500 seeds of Round Leaf Holly, Persimmon, Chinaberry, Firmiana simplex, Japanese Hackberry, Jujube—trees that are the second or third generation of Hibaku Trees. I am going to give these seeds to people who are interested in planting them. These seedlings will be exhibited at The Horticultural Society of New York in Dec 2009. I'm amazed and comforted by Hiroshi's project. The idea is inspiring, literally, breath-giving. The spirit and the invitation are gently engaging, compelling, activating. The photographs are quiet, transparent, and honest. When I say that photography is a conversation, a way of knowing, a way of paying attention, I'm talking about Hiroshi's project. ...
We're moving through the fall, wondering what the next stage of this small plant's cycle will look like. Watching this Gingko sprout and grow is a metaphor for what I'm doing in my work as a teacher and artist. Autonomy is crucial to this discussion. Did you do that on purpose, with intent? Or was it an accident. Are we free to make things that can exist in and of themselves? Or does everything we make exist only and forever embedded within a vast net of other things. What is the purpose of making? Watching the Gingko, watering it, wondering if its leaves will turn with the season, I ask: what is the purpose of growing? These days I wonder if that's the wrong question. Now the fall brings wonder and expectation that perhaps the green interior light of my budding sprout will turn yellow, orange, and eventually brown. I don't know. There's a dryness on the surface of the small leaves. See my previous posts on this project: click on the topic label ...
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