Catherine Redmond

Morning Magic, 2019, Archival Digital Print

What a strange experience to watch the Democratic Debates tonight and the flashy production of the set, more Jeopardy or a World Wide Wrestling match than the serious process of a debate for the highest office in our democracy.  We have become so accustomed to visual overload that few may have noticed.  It’s all part of our pinball-light-up-and-win world.

Here, though, I can bring a slow eye to what I see.  This photo, another fortuitous find, was shot in the hours of early light.

Saturday Flowers, 2019, Archival Digital Print

No words necessary

It’s Saturday

The pleasure of seeing

A leaf

An odd shape a shadow makes

Dark against light

Love against hate

The dance goes on

Eternal

Night Blossoms, 2019, Archival Digital Print

A terrific studio visit yesterday. Thank you, George T., for your sensitive eyes and insight.  When an artist admits a trusted viewer into the studio it is the opportunity, by the presence of an enlightened observer, to see with new eyes.  Yesterday I saw connections I had forgotten about that reached back in time.  There is a thread of inquiry that continues to be wired and live. There’s so much to do.

Morning, 2019, Archival Digital Print

The temps have dropped.

The heat is a memory.

Brooklyn had it bad last night.

Place determines everything.

The pin on the map is destiny.

Tree in Overcast Light, 2019, Archival Digital Print

What makes this current hot spell strange, is not the heat, but the oppressive air. It feels as if all the Oxygen has been removed.  The Eastern Catalpa on my front lawn dropped many of its leaves yesterday.  They cover the lawn, brown and spent.  The march to fascism comes closer suffocating our values.  The evil that Trump has loosed and nurtured continues its malignancy and our politicians are pretty much silent so eager to be re-elected they will sacrifice nothing.  This is how it happens.

Nasturtium, 2019, Archival Digital Print

The eternal dynamic between The Light and The Darkness gives us photography in its original form. What plays out in black and white is supple and ingenious given its limits.  It is the metaphor for being.  The life force, the death force.  One is either a cynic or has faith.  The cynic sees the darkness growing; those of faith celebrate the light of a single candle.  I have known many who only believe that the darkness will win.  They carry it in their very beings.  They find evidence of it everywhere and of course attract those experiences to them.  Those of faith, and here I don’t mean religious faith but faith in the good, the beautiful, the positive, see it differently. How we choose to make our own reality is the story of our lives.

TickTock and His Dominion, 2019, Archival Digital Photo

There he is surveying his protectorate always on duty.  TickTock is a perfect rooster and day in day out is vigilant about his hens’ safety.  Yes, his hens, male ownership, it wouldn’t fly in today’s awareness of gender equality.  He flew up to take a look at the goslings below, now almost grown and new tenants in the coop.   The hens, except for Clara Big Baby, don’t care about independence and seem to enjoy having a strong male to boss them around.

Apart from collecting eggs, feeding and cleaning duties, my visits to the flock are simply to enjoy and observe. These birds remind me of the basic pleasure of a day spent walking around and pecking to see what you can find.

I need a plan while hoping the Giant doesn’t climb down that beanstalk, 2019, Archival Digital Print

It dawned on me last week that what makes The Homestead magical, or put another way, what my land elicits in me, is the sense of magic and wonder I felt when I was six or seven. It is the gift this place gives me. Everywhere I walk, explore, see, I make finds I hadn’t expected.  It’s quite preposterous, I know, and I don’t expect anyone to believe me though anyone who has walked it when visiting feels it, too.

The beanstalk in this photo (actually a Wild Grape Vine) is an example.  It is growing in the lush green of the ravine behind the dog pen.  It is a steep drop down there where Deer, Fox, Raccoons and Nicky, the feral cat, run and travel. The Wild Turkeys, too.  The pond is lower and to the right of this photo so this area teems all year ’round with comings and goings.  There is a density here as well, so every day there is a new surprise, a new animal, a new sound, a new flower.

It isn’t a stretch to think that one dusky evening, I’ll be out there with the dogs and hear what I first think is thunder, the dogs will look up and stand perfectly still, my eyes will follow as the ground starts to shake and we’ll see those huge hairy legs start to descend from high above. I’ll open the gate and we’ll run like hell into the house.