Walking back from the studio, 2023, Archival Digital Print
It was going to be a Spring Break, some good time in the studio uninterrupted, a simple and focused week. Instead, so far it has been week of weather, loss of power, a stuck car, too many emails, and complications from all of these things. Today we have a thaw at least and the flock can get outside and do some picking and probing for goodies. I can proof these new plates and all my gripes will be forgotten.
Garbage Cans Wait for Pickup in the Moonlight, 2022, Archival Digital Print
Even the plastic garbage cans look monumental in the November moonlight.
The heat of the day continued into the night and now
A strange November evening was aided by Mother Moon
Smiling on us,
Indifferent to our frettings,
Just happy to be a reflection of the Sun.
Betty’s Two Icelandics at Sunset, Archival Digital Print, 2022
In the moist dark of 4 AM,
I wonder at the strangeness of thinking about the bomb and
Why are we obliterating ourselves?
How can we have handled the pandemic, which we knew for decades was an inevitability,
How can we be so divided as a nation?
that people even utter the words Civil War?
At what point
On what date
At exactly what time
Should we have swerved but didn’t?
Tree, 2022, Archival Digital Print
The Fourth of July weekend and it feels like we have less to celebrate as the Supreme Court turns women into chattel, objects with no power over their own bodies. The tree stands tall and elegant, far more sane than the humans who are trying to destroy themselves and the planet.
First Light, 2022, Archival Digital Print
I saw this yesterday before 6 A.M. as I was turning onto Route 27 to head to the train. There was mist on the pond to the right and new sunlight touched each and every one of the staked vines.
Burdock, 2022, Archival Digital Print
Young Burdock, now isolated from his parents because his father will not accept a competing male, lives among the chickens and yearns for a wife.
Morning Shadows, 2022, Archival Digital Print
The fiction of the on-line world originally seemed a field of play to me.
Here was the first arena of the imagination that could be shared globally. It would be a playground of possibilities for poets, novelists, animators, artists. I innocently imagined a playground where all the children could pretend and create as they wanted. It would be my childhood mind gone global. I had omitted the bullies and the hidden-under-the-rock ogres who also infest the child’s world.
So here we are with our minds stolen out from under us and now instead of creating we are all sucking at its teat and ingesting horror after horror of doubt, misinformation, unsubstantiated claims and slowly turning into wobbly, wild tribal people.
Waterfall, Poughkeepsie, 2022, Archival Digital Print
The skies are forever open and water pours on us day after day. Better than the drought in the West. I was able to get this view from the train last night as we were leaving the station in Poughkeepsie heading home. All waterfalls make me think of Marsden Hartley’s waterfall. This one is such a surprise coming as it does straight toward the tracks just north of town.
Demus Watching, 2022, Archival Digital Print
The feral boy, Demus, has fattened up this winter. He is as much a part of the land as are the Eastern Catalpas.