Is the spirit within me? Within the landscape? Or within the relationship between us? I know this begs a philosophical discussion, but there’s a practical objective behind this.
I swore I wouldn’t become a parent, or a grandparent toting hundreds of images of my children like a hunter waiting for unwary prey. “Let me kill you softly with beauty. Sweet. It won’t take too long.” Too often the emotional connection that we have to our subject colours our perception of the aesthetic value of the images. We admit that freely, and it’s not a confession to be extracted that rarely are we in the business of transforming our relatives in to fine art.
Is fine art clinical? Are the images that stand out, that work, that matter, those that are “cooly dispassionate”? I ask myself because many of the images that work for me, are those for which I have a profound relationship with the subject. Do my relationships with subjects effect viewers who are unaware of my attachments? If so, how?
This is where my pilgrimage begins. This is where my father grew up, where he took us as children, where he put his boat in, where we fished. This is where “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…”