Thursday, January 2, 2014
Along the West Wind Drift what versions of reality exist might be frozen on the ice sheets, seconds, hours, months…eons when time goes rigid. Except for the passing of ships and the sliding wind nothing changes or moves in the perfection of blue ice. In warmer climes, populated, dotted with colors, broken into fragments, time gathers its denominations behind fences, under swells and tree lined streets, to be released in the daily pattern, the ebb and flow of tides and traffic, in rhythms of heartbeat and breath.Somehow we know a unity. The piecemeal of time’s strobe effect, flashes of black and white on a darkroom wall, gather into this fabric of pictures. Not the frozen blue confection, but tenuous connections, finding their way through the light and dark patches that separate us one from another.