The rain always sounds like forgiveness
June 27, 2013 § Leave a comment
I opened a book tonight. In it I found flowers I had saved, pressed between the sheets. Found flowers again found in America, wildflowers. Yellow, yellow, purple, maybe a muted green.
In the book also I had written:
Vespertine. Attenuated. Alluvial. Coalesces. Penumbral. Redolent.
Time becomes ecstatic. Temporal expansion. Revelation that eludes temporal time. Sediment of misery. Indifference.
Sediment of misery. That stuck with me. It felt murky, and unlike words I would ever say. Where would I have experienced such a sediment. It must have been some American inspiration, words to help me see what others had seen. Anyway. Sally Mann, those are her words. Describing the pull of her images and process in Deep South.
I sometimes worry photography is too realistic, too hyperreal. With digital and all. I m iss the exchange with light, the murkiness, the unabsolute. Using time and intensity and pitch and chemicals and silver and shadow and forbearance, filters, glass, aspects of light as the day passes, accidents of chemistry, accidents of mechanics. Age of materials, indecision, sabotage. Which make something real of the moment, unique, manipulated, tools and materials. 8 hours to get that image right in the darkroom. Alone with the image, with my hands on it, watching it bolt red hot from lens to paper. Feeding the chemicals. Looking for the grain. Plus then minus the magenta (strongest) or yellow (weakest).
Breathing all the time. Camera breaths, darkroom breaths, print breaths.
Sediment of my memory.