At the Edge of the Orchard, 2017, Archival Digital Print

The silence of fog is reassuring unless you are at the wheel driving on the road. On the land it mutes sound and color and offers a dreaminess of expectation or dread given the observer’s condition. Who will walk out of this ectoplasm toward us? What is there unseen but felt? A ghost or an old friend, a past lover or a hideous monster?

Bananas, 4 A.M., 2017, Archival Digital Print

The heat went out on Friday. It was repaired quickly and served to remind me how blithely we assume our comforts as givens. For much of the world staying warm is at the front of consciousness, close with shelter and food. Removing these survival concerns from most of us in the developed world, is it any wonder that so many occupy their minds with neurotic tics and contorted worries? Are these indulgences that only the privileged of the world can afford, like artifacts that developed when collecting sticks and chasing down game were no longer necessary to get through the day?

I had an unusual dream last night but I can’t pull it back.   Instead I got up and photographed the bananas as they were dreaming.

Found Still Life: The Sideboard, 2017, Archival Digital Print

On this the first day of the new year, most are exhausted, not from the night before, but from a year of surprise and plot twists no third-rate paperback writer would dare try. The real and the unreal have been turned upside down and the split is complete. All bets are off. Hold on, here we go.