Also some pictures. One of them is here. This picture was taken from my front steps. My neighborhood does not actually look this nice. When I was showing this to a friend, I explained to him that one thing I loved about photography is the hunt for something beautiful. One must frame what is already there in such a way that the image is not merely a reflection of the blurry mess we live in. Most often it is distinct, whether distinct in it's beauty or distinct in it's hideousness, or distinct in it's contrast of the two. When I was explaining this brand new philosophy to him, in the way that I explain things when I've just stumbled upon a new way of framing an idea only seconds ago, we were walking through a parking lot, and I said "Somewhere in this parking lot there is a beautiful photograph. I have only to crop out what is not in the photograph to find it." I am reminded of Michaelangelo and his stone-work being only a removal of what is not the sculpture inside. To the right of this photograph is one of the most hideous houses I have ever been forced to look at. This picture is given the opportunity to say something, not drowned out by it's hideousness.
And this picture makes me happy. It is rain crawling down my car window after a day of class. The world and it's colors are being washed away, and I have a sense of closeness. It is a similar sensation to the rush of adrenaline I used to get when we would build a fort, dig a ditch and put plywood over the top, arrange pillows and blankets in the living room and make a maze, hack away blackberry bushes and create a series of tunnels inside that led to little rooms. This buzzing sensation, it comes back when it rains. It comes back when the clouds cover the sky low down, and it is just us in this tiny space. This is the type of space that things would always happen in, that secrets would be told in. What is it about this space, and why am I programmed to respond so childishly?
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