A Predicament.
County Fair, July 17, 2014.

thebeingtime:

Uta Barth’s (1958 – ) work made me want to be a photographer when I was beginning college, and while she comes much later than Laura Gilpin in the history of photography, I think their work pairs well together. Her conceptual grappling with light, perception, and the optics of the camera remind me of Descartes’s La Dioptrique (1637)in which he describes the nature of light and seeing. These two together reinforce the eternal resonance of the mysteries of light and sight: 

You have only to consider that the differences which a blind man notes among trees, rocks, water, and similar things through the medium of his stick do not seem less to him than those among red, yellow, green, and all the other colors seem to us; and that nevertheless these differences are nothing other, in all these bodies, than the diverse ways of moving, or of resisting the movements of, this stick.

I love this work.

(Reblogged from thebeingtime)

Highlight of my museum-going in Vienna.

thebarefootphotographer:

#rust

Donna Rosser.  She gets it.

(Reblogged from thebarefootphotographer)

Straight scan of a negative from my new (old) favorite camera, a circa 1938/1939 Rolleicord. The winding mechanism needs some fine-tuning, but I can live with that in order to have some fun with the lens.

I love this new book from Tammy Mercure. Had heard the story of Mary when I lived in Johnson City, TN, in the late 1980s. This rendition enlarges the tale and shows it in all its gothic glory. The cover is spectacular, too.

tammymercure:

timkarr:

Recent Acquisition. “Mary” by Tammy Mercure.

Thanks Tim! Still have some available for those interested.

(Reblogged from tammymercure)

Forgiveness.

The ability to forgive oneself. Stop here for a few breaths and think about this, because it is the key to making art and very possibly the key to finding any semblance of happiness in life. Every time I have set out to translate the book (or story, or hopelessly long essay) that exists in such brilliant detail on the big screen of my limbic system onto a piece of paper (which, let’s face it, was once a towering tree crowned with leaves and a home to birds), I grieve for my own lack of talent and intelligence. Every. Single. Time. Were I smarter, more gifted, I could pin down a closer facsimile of the wonders I see. I believe that, more than anything else, this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness, therefore, is key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing. Again and again throughout the course of my life I will forgive myself.

(Reblogged from orchardjournal)