Musings on the Creative Process by Marty Knapp
Selected essays about photography & the creative process
Posted in reverse chronological order.
All material ©2000-2003,2004,2005,2006,2007,2008,2009, 2010 Marty Knapp.
A Most Fortunate Blunder
August 11, 2010
August 11, 2010
We call them mistakes, accidents, and blunders. Sometimes we refer to them as roadblocks, messes, or hassles. Our dictionary is filled with words that describe the various ways we can be blocked, delayed, or discouraged from what it is we were doing or had hoped to accomplish. We choose to deal with these in many ways. We can turn away, walk around, ignore, curse, become agitated, lose our bearing, give up. Or....
I sat, leaning slightly forward on a hard wooden stool. Oblivious to my body's growing discomfort, I stared at a cosmos of luminous spheres which appeared in my camera's viewfinder. I was transfixed, and felt as though I was floating in an immense sea of radiant light. I could've been voyaging to the far reaches of interstellar space. This evening, when I had journeyed into the super-macro world, had been enchanting and satisfyingly productive... so far.
On my table was a clear acrylic vessel filled with viscous liquid. A single spotlight illuminated the thousands of micro-bubbles suspended in this liquid. My camera was perched on its tripod, inches from the container. Through my macro lens I scanned this minute world, finding one incredible vista after another. For over an hour I delighted in these views. I was fatigued, but like an addict, I thought "just one more...." I reached for the adjustment nob on the tripod head to change the angle of the lens.
As I loosened the knob the camera suddenly lurched forward. I had turned the wrong knob! As it swung down the lens kicked the vessel, spilling a pint of sticky liquid across my table. I stared in disbelief at this goo. What a mess! I shook my head and scolded myself for "over-doing it." I was tired and irritated..., ready to call it a night. As I walked away to get some cleaning gear I glanced back at the mess. The light glinted off the lustrous surface of the spill highlighting the wavy edges of the surface, creating gorgeous patterns. This spill glowed like a treasure. Now, I felt awake, very awake. I re-positioned my camera, and began to explore the surface. Slowly scanning this magnificent surface, I photographed for another hour. Here is one of my favorites, Terrain #86, made during the night of my fortunate blunder.
I sat, leaning slightly forward on a hard wooden stool. Oblivious to my body's growing discomfort, I stared at a cosmos of luminous spheres which appeared in my camera's viewfinder. I was transfixed, and felt as though I was floating in an immense sea of radiant light. I could've been voyaging to the far reaches of interstellar space. This evening, when I had journeyed into the super-macro world, had been enchanting and satisfyingly productive... so far.
On my table was a clear acrylic vessel filled with viscous liquid. A single spotlight illuminated the thousands of micro-bubbles suspended in this liquid. My camera was perched on its tripod, inches from the container. Through my macro lens I scanned this minute world, finding one incredible vista after another. For over an hour I delighted in these views. I was fatigued, but like an addict, I thought "just one more...." I reached for the adjustment nob on the tripod head to change the angle of the lens.
As I loosened the knob the camera suddenly lurched forward. I had turned the wrong knob! As it swung down the lens kicked the vessel, spilling a pint of sticky liquid across my table. I stared in disbelief at this goo. What a mess! I shook my head and scolded myself for "over-doing it." I was tired and irritated..., ready to call it a night. As I walked away to get some cleaning gear I glanced back at the mess. The light glinted off the lustrous surface of the spill highlighting the wavy edges of the surface, creating gorgeous patterns. This spill glowed like a treasure. Now, I felt awake, very awake. I re-positioned my camera, and began to explore the surface. Slowly scanning this magnificent surface, I photographed for another hour. Here is one of my favorites, Terrain #86, made during the night of my fortunate blunder.
A small world becomes incredibly large
June 17, 2010
When I was a little boy I would gaze with rapt wonder at the sparkling stars in the midnight sky. At Christmas-time, the ornaments on my family's tree twinkled and sparkled, beckoning me. I'd squint my eyes to enhance the optical effect of the rays as they streamed from the glowing bulbs and sparkled from the globed ornaments. These timeless moments of visual delight were a joyful reverie. I smile now, as I must have done then, as I remember these moments. Little did I know that my childhood's fascination with light and what glowed and sparkled, would return to manifest itself in my chosen life's work, photography.
I felt grateful when, just recently, these same joyful feelings of wonder returned. On a day in late April, the low afternoon sun raked across my table, its rays back-tlighting a bottle of clear liquid. Suspended inside this clear liquid, thousands of micro-bubbles came alive. They sparkled, star-like in this liquid universe. Drawn by this magnificent display, I stopped everything and walked closer to look more deeply at this profoundly beautiful phenomenon.
Within the fluid, I discovered a surprisingly vast universe. There seemed no end to the views both deep within and along the surface. I mounted my Canon macro lens on the digital Lumix G1, and in turn attached that rig to my tripod. I brought my lens very near, nearer, and nearer still. I was soon exploring, inch by inch, a fantastic world. I looked deeply, and viewed the horizon from every angle as I made photographs of the fluid's interior. As I slowly scanned the territory, remarkable landscapes unveiled themselves. Transfixed and barely stirring from my stool, I felt I had travelled millions of light years into the far reaches of interstellar space. Hours later, I arose from my seat, straightened my back, and pulled the camera back from the scene. I had discovered and recorded scores of photographs, some good, some not so good during this first of many photographic evenings. I was on fire like an explorer discovering a new world .... a world boding much promise.
Tonight, and now nearly every night, I feel the longings to continue my exploration. The fact that there are many times that I am unable to follow my quest fills me with a most bittersweet joy. I keep this desire to make new photographs alive within me. Perhaps this is one of the fundamental secrets of the creative spirit.... that once the fire kindles, do not let it die. Cherish and keep this ember alive so that it can glow again.... and again. Tonight my own ember smolders in me.
Discovering the beauty of a smaller world
March 30, 2010
It's been difficult to think about, let alone write about this.
For the last year I've struggled with a serious bout of creative inertia. I've had trouble motivating myself to go out and make photographs. Dramatically beautiful clouds and radiant lighting have come and gone. I've noticed these moments but they have left me feeling conflicted, a little sad. Until just recently I've been unable to even consider photographing what I'd been seeing. I felt somewhat guilty by my inertia. Gradually, I came to understand that I was going through a long-overdue change. Things were settling inside. I felt like a snake that was shedding a skin. I began to feel encouraged. Something new was coming, but I knew not what it was.
For the last year I've struggled with a serious bout of creative inertia. I've had trouble motivating myself to go out and make photographs. Dramatically beautiful clouds and radiant lighting have come and gone. I've noticed these moments but they have left me feeling conflicted, a little sad. Until just recently I've been unable to even consider photographing what I'd been seeing. I felt somewhat guilty by my inertia. Gradually, I came to understand that I was going through a long-overdue change. Things were settling inside. I felt like a snake that was shedding a skin. I began to feel encouraged. Something new was coming, but I knew not what it was.
In September I wrote about my artist's block to my long-time friend and collector of my photography, Richard Zirinsky, Jr. He replied cryptically, "We'll have to talk about this 'trouble making photographs'." (Among his many creative talents and achievements, Richard is the co-founder and managing partner of Adventure Music.)
A few days later, Fedex delivered a small, neatly-packed box. Inside was a gift that would begin to change everything. Opening the box, I found a note from Richard and a beautiful Panasonic Lumix point and shoot digital camera. My heart beat like a little kid unwrapping a Christmas present. I started playing with this little gem, and soon I was carrying it everywhere. It has a superb lens, and it's ease of operation seduced me. I began making photographs again, but in a wholly new manner. The new camera had begun to stimulate the creative in me. Even so, I still did not know where I was going with my creative spirit.
The winter came and went, and I still had not found my way. Even so, I felt encouraged, more confident that something was happening inside me. I told my wife, Jean, that "something new is coming... I just didn't know what it is, yet." I knew that I would be making some new photographs, of something, somewhere.
I liked Richard's Lumix camera so much, that in February I purchased it's bigger brother, the Panasonic Lumix G1. The G1 had certain additional manual exposure and focusing features I require to create the kind of photographs I was accustomed to. Also, this new camera had the advantage of accepting other lenses, including my legacy Canon FD film lenses which I had cut my teeth on over 20 years ago. In particular, I was delighted to discover I could use my 50mm Canon Macro lens.
During the first full moon workshop I taught in February, I experimented with the G1 and a couple of my old Canon telephoto lenses. The results were very pleasing to me. At home I started playing with my treasured Canon 50mm macro lens and was amazed at the beauty I discovered in the very small world. Magnified forms, glowing in new dimensions, drew me in. I was delighted... on fire again!
A week ago, I trained my lens into the depths of a pool of liquid. There, I found a universe of sparkling spheres backlit by the setting sun, suspended in the liquid. Then, later that week, I walked slowly along a trail at Lake Nicasio. Looking down, I saw millions of dew-covered baby plants sparkling in the morning light. Radiant fog was lifting from the lake, revealing Black Mountain. For a brief moment, distracted, I thought of photographing that scene. But, remembering what had called me, I looked down again at the dew-covered plants. I lowered my camera, knelt, and began to photograph this splendor of God's new creation.
I still don't know where this new work is leading me. All I know is that I have started waking up in the morning feeling alive and wanting to photograph again. It's like when I began, over 20 years ago, and set out to photograph the beauty of Point Reyes. Back then, I knew I was being spoken through, inspired. Now, again, I hear that calling. I feel humbled and grateful.
DRAKES MOONRISE: The making of a photograph
February 9, 2010
February 9, 2010
On an October afternoon in 1990 I sat staring at a large map of the Point Reyes Peninsula spread out on my work table. Nearby, open to October, was an ephemeris calibrated for Point Reyes. The tables listed not only the time of the sun and moon risings and settings, but also the azimuth (compass bearing) of these events. And even more importantly, it detailed the altitude of these heavenly bodies, minute by minute for each date. On top of the map was a sheet of clear acetate that I had marked with an array of detailed compass bearings. As I slid the acetate over the map, registering the markings based on the data in my ephemeris, I was able to pre-determine a location and a date for a moonrise photograph I had in mind. I discoverd that an upcoming evening in October could provide a unique opportunity to photograph the full moon rising over the white cliffs of Drakes Beach. This was a photograph that I had long hoped to make. I marked my calendar and set aside all commitments for the upcoming event.
On the pre-selected date, I arrived at the beach 30 minutes before the predicted moonrise. I took the extra time to find my spot and choose my lens. I entertained myself with the compass, reconfirming that the moon would come up in the location that my earlier mapping had indicated. As the sun hurried down behind me, I saw the ghostly form of the moon peek from behind the grass-covered hills. As it first broke free from the cliffs, it lacked the brightness and contrast I hoped for. However, in a few minutes, the moon became startlingly vivid. I felt a rush of excitement as I witnessed this moment. The sun was nearly down, it's last rays raking the tops of Drakes cliffs and the eastern ridges. I composed the scene through my telephoto lens and then made several exposures. The scene was stunning and the timing worked better than I could have ever expected. Drake's Moonrise has become the most collected of all photographs.
Photography Without a Camera
A creative meditation
October 7, 2009
Take a walk without your camera this afternoon. Go to a place that you'd love to photograph. When you get there, stop for a moment and simply relax. Slow down and then, with no goal in mind, begin walking around this place. Walk with soft eyes and let yourself go. Gradually, you may begin to consider what you might photograph if you had your camera.
If the light is gorgeous, you might feel anxious because you could be missing some good photographs. Stop then, and take a long deep breath. Have faith. Trust me, there will be other rich opportunities awaiting you at future moments in other spaces. You are here, now, to learn to see deeper. You've come to learn more about what you love--to know it and yourself better. You're here to prepare yourself to see through your camera more fully once you do pick it up again.
So, for now, simply relish the beauty. Pause often to feel it, to contemplate it. Be an explorer of the great delights of this space..., this moment. Notice what you love, what attracts your attention. Look far, look near. Make a window of your hands and frame a scene. Far away, and then up close. This angle, and then that. Okay, are you starting to see what is you, what is that? Is there a place that they might meet, spill into one another? Then, think about how, with an image, you could express what you have seen and felt. Later, when the time is right return--with your camera.
The Fence
September 2, 2009
This last spring I hosted some informal photo shooting sessions on Saturday afternoons. I've facilitated several now, and each has produced valuable insights. I've long been a believer in the mutual benefits education offers to both student and teacher. These informal outdoors sessions have confirmed my belief.
Before the first session, I spent several afternoons scouting a location close to my studio. I checked the angle of the light during the hours I would later be taking my photographer friends. I felt comfortable that I knew the terrain and would be able to bring folks to the right place at the right time. As well-prepared as I thought I was, the unexpected still greeted me during the sessions.
During the first outing, we stopped on the sunlit side of a meandering ranch fence that curled down a grassy hill toward the edge of an oak forest. I was a little nervous, trying to be helpful as possible to my student. After pacing around a bit, I found "my spot" and set the camera's lens to a composition that I thought would be instructive. Bringing my friend, Larry, over to the viewfinder, I asked him to check out the image I was working on. "Hmmm..", he said, "nice fence, but it doesn't go anywhere." I looked again in my viewfinder, and after a few seconds I accepted his observation. "You're right. I wonder why I didn't notice that!" I thought about this for a moment. The fence had seduced me ....it was very interesting and had potential. But, in making my composition, I had not provided it with any dynamic context. It was just a naked fence, kinda going nowhere, and perhaps a little indecisive too. I broke down my camera and thought I would try to photograph this fence at another time, probably from a different angle as well. And, so we moved on....
The next Saturday, I brought another photographer over to the fence. This time, feeling wiser, I did not suggest a composition. Soon, my colleague went to the opposite side of the fence from where I had earlier failed, and began to compose a landscape using the fence as the main element. I asked her what she saw. Her reply caught me off guard..."Marty, it's like you said.... the sun angle is everything! This fence looks dynamic when it is back-lit." Looking through her viewfinder, I found a photo begging to be taken. The fence had come alive and the background helped to enhance the fence's presence. Using one of the principles I had taught her, she had located the superior lighting angle to make a compelling photograph of the fence.
Perhaps the lessons my students "taught" me were ones I already knew. But, what was significant was that I was offered a deeper understanding of the practice of seeing and photographing. What was valuable was that by being willing to go out and teach I got the rewarding experience of learning - seeing anew through another's eyes. A few days later I walked back to the fence and made my own version of it in this photograph.
Before the first session, I spent several afternoons scouting a location close to my studio. I checked the angle of the light during the hours I would later be taking my photographer friends. I felt comfortable that I knew the terrain and would be able to bring folks to the right place at the right time. As well-prepared as I thought I was, the unexpected still greeted me during the sessions.
During the first outing, we stopped on the sunlit side of a meandering ranch fence that curled down a grassy hill toward the edge of an oak forest. I was a little nervous, trying to be helpful as possible to my student. After pacing around a bit, I found "my spot" and set the camera's lens to a composition that I thought would be instructive. Bringing my friend, Larry, over to the viewfinder, I asked him to check out the image I was working on. "Hmmm..", he said, "nice fence, but it doesn't go anywhere." I looked again in my viewfinder, and after a few seconds I accepted his observation. "You're right. I wonder why I didn't notice that!" I thought about this for a moment. The fence had seduced me ....it was very interesting and had potential. But, in making my composition, I had not provided it with any dynamic context. It was just a naked fence, kinda going nowhere, and perhaps a little indecisive too. I broke down my camera and thought I would try to photograph this fence at another time, probably from a different angle as well. And, so we moved on....
The next Saturday, I brought another photographer over to the fence. This time, feeling wiser, I did not suggest a composition. Soon, my colleague went to the opposite side of the fence from where I had earlier failed, and began to compose a landscape using the fence as the main element. I asked her what she saw. Her reply caught me off guard..."Marty, it's like you said.... the sun angle is everything! This fence looks dynamic when it is back-lit." Looking through her viewfinder, I found a photo begging to be taken. The fence had come alive and the background helped to enhance the fence's presence. Using one of the principles I had taught her, she had located the superior lighting angle to make a compelling photograph of the fence.
Perhaps the lessons my students "taught" me were ones I already knew. But, what was significant was that I was offered a deeper understanding of the practice of seeing and photographing. What was valuable was that by being willing to go out and teach I got the rewarding experience of learning - seeing anew through another's eyes. A few days later I walked back to the fence and made my own version of it in this photograph.
How good is your lens?
March 26, 2009
We photographers share a fascination with the technical qualities of our equipment. This interest is fostered largely by the marketing efforts of the equipment manufacturers. Photography periodicals are littered with charts that tout the advantages of the latest and greatest lens by manufacturer X. Complex graphs & charts comparing lines of resolution per millimeter and spectral responses of the "X lens" to it's competitors are commonplace in equipment review articles. It is easy to be seduced into thinking that if only we had the latest example of the manufacturer's X-Lens, our photographs would finally live up to the high expectations we have for them. And although I agree there are measurable, even discernible, improvements in quality in these ever-newer lenses, I think we may be missing the point.
We photographers share a fascination with the technical qualities of our equipment. This interest is fostered largely by the marketing efforts of the equipment manufacturers. Photography periodicals are littered with charts that tout the advantages of the latest and greatest lens by manufacturer X. Complex graphs & charts comparing lines of resolution per millimeter and spectral responses of the "X lens" to it's competitors are commonplace in equipment review articles. It is easy to be seduced into thinking that if only we had the latest example of the manufacturer's X-Lens, our photographs would finally live up to the high expectations we have for them. And although I agree there are measurable, even discernible, improvements in quality in these ever-newer lenses, I think we may be missing the point.
My friend and mentor Bill Booras once told me that with the advent of computer-derived optical formulas and programmed robotic
manufacturing, the qualitative differences between lenses have greatly shrunk. Most lenses, even rather inexpensive ones, are highly corrected for most of the faults that plagued earlier, pre space-age optics. The "space age" began in 1957 when the first artificial satellites were hurled into earth orbit. Very good lenses have been made for quite some time, now! If all things remain somewhat equal, it must be something else that is the determining factor of a print's sharpness. Bear with me--I do not have an engineering degree, and so my conclusion may lack the appropriate authority. I'll go ahead anyway.....
Many visitors to my gallery remark on the sharpness of the photographs they see on the walls. To some it is a mystery and they inquire about the film used, the camera, the lens, and some want to know what developer I have used. Although all the prints are sharp, the various images have been made from a variety of films, cameras, lenses and development strategies. I have one image on 35mm film (technical pan film) taken with an inexpensive off-brand zoom lens. It is striking in it's sharpness and resolution of detail. What it and the other photographs at my gallery have in common is that each one was made with a camera perched upon a rock-steady platform--a tripod. And every exposure was triggered with a cable release. So, before you strain the budget one more time for that super lens, consider dusting off your tripod and carrying it with you to your next photo shoot. You may surprise yourself with some new-found sharpness!
Many visitors to my gallery remark on the sharpness of the photographs they see on the walls. To some it is a mystery and they inquire about the film used, the camera, the lens, and some want to know what developer I have used. Although all the prints are sharp, the various images have been made from a variety of films, cameras, lenses and development strategies. I have one image on 35mm film (technical pan film) taken with an inexpensive off-brand zoom lens. It is striking in it's sharpness and resolution of detail. What it and the other photographs at my gallery have in common is that each one was made with a camera perched upon a rock-steady platform--a tripod. And every exposure was triggered with a cable release. So, before you strain the budget one more time for that super lens, consider dusting off your tripod and carrying it with you to your next photo shoot. You may surprise yourself with some new-found sharpness!
When is a Photograph Good?
February 3, 2009
The creative process of making a photograph is fraught with uncertainty. From locating the subject matter, to distilling your idea as you compose the image on the groundglass or in the viewfinder, there is no shortage of obstacles to overcome. These first two parts of the process alone are worthy of deep and thoughtful consideration, but today we'll jump ahead to the middle part of this process, which deals with editing your efforts. So, assuming a modicum of success in the capture of your image, you'll find that the real work has only just begun. Should a print be made? If so, what adjustments are needed? Also, dare you let anyone see this print? These are all decisions that I've made over the years. Today, I'm writing to you about the ways that I decide if an image is good enough to make into a fine photograph.
Everything I photograph is on film, but for my digital photography friends the same decision-making process applies. I won't belabor you with the reviewing process, but suffice it to say that when a good photograph is being made, there are often variations of exposure or compositon to take into account. If your images are digital, don't be hasty in the selection process. Don't let the pressures of time cause you to delete what could eventually become the best image of a session. Editing in the digital world can be lethal. Unlike with film, your actions could cause you to lose a "lifetime" image. As an analog (film) photographer, I don't have to deal with that issue, as my negatives and contact prints are never thrown away.....but I digress.
After spending some clear-headed moments reviewing your exposures, identify the images that you think are contenders for your portfolio, publication, a competition or your own personal pleasure. Then, make a very good 8x10" print of each of the candidates. When done, take one last look at the group you've made, and either put them away in a folder or a box, or pin them to a wall that you pass by fairly regularly. In either case, walk away from them for now.
Taking as much time as you can allow for editing, come to visit your photographs once or twice a day, and briefly look again. At first, defer any decisions, but notice how you react to them as some time passes. Perhaps that "blue ribbon winner" isn't looking so great after all? Maybe that print from the digital file that you nearly deleted, is starting to shine, eh? In any case, give these prints the time they need, and yourself the distance you need to start seeing them better. You will be surprised at what happens if you stay still for a while. The time spent away from your images allows things to settle in you. It also removes you from the emotion you may have felt when you saw and made the original exposure. Believe me, in most cases, the emotion you may have felt when making a photograph is not easily communicated to the viewers of your work.
As time goes by, remove the lesser images from the box or from the wall. If you remove all of them, don't despair because you've guaranteed that your future efforts will be much better. The future photographs you make will benefit from your rigorous and thoughtful editing! If, after this review, one or more of your images still remain, then it's time for the next step. This is a big one. Your new job is to make the very best print of each of the finalists. Determining the size of these prints is just one of several personal decisions you will next make. I'll write more about this in a future column.
Ansel's Shoes and the Rooftop Shooting Platform
Labor Day Weekend, 2008
Today I removed the rooftop shooting platform from my 1987 Toyota Van. This sun-blistered plywood perch had travelled with me atop my camper for thousands of miles for more than five years. During those years I had hauled myself and camera gear up onto it, perhaps, a half-dozen times. Regrettably, apart from a group portrait I once made, I'd not created one memorable image from my deck. Even so, the thought of disassembling and removing the stage stirred up a mix of emotions.
My shooting platform was inspired by a story I had read about a similar rig that Ansel Adams had fabricated. His set-up was mounted on a vintage station wagon and was used to make several important photographs, most notably "Moonrise over Hernandez." Ansel used his to avoid the roadside obstructions of fenceposts and other man-made casualities. We photographers try to create the illusion of an earlier, more natural and pristine landscape by keeping such modern debris out of our viewfinder and off of our film. I had intended to use mine for the same practical purpose.
As I twirled the locknuts securing the plywood to the rooftop racks, I remembered the hopes and plans I had held for my shooting perch. I had found just the right collapsible step-stool to use for accessing my platform. It fit perfectly behind my van's back bench seat. I even wistfully recalled the time I had spread out a blanket to take a sunbath atop the van in the Alabama Hills! As I walked around to the other side of the van to continue my disassembly, I wondered if I would regret my decision.
Then my thoughts drifted back to Ansel. When I started to photograph I knew little about the history of photography. My formal education came from subscriptions to photo journals, borrowed photo textbooks, and a few precious photography volumes purchased from the bookstore. Among these published works, some oversize Ansel Adams wall calendars stood out. I marvelled at the stunning and majestic beauty of Ansel's creations, as gorgeously reproduced by Gardner Lithograph. These calendar prints were my original inspiration, and in my early years they strongly influenced the style of work I created.
In recent years, though, things have begun to shift in me. I've gradually lost my interest in the majestic views that had earlier seduced me. It's a smaller, more intimate scene that I now find appealing. I am gradually becoming more attuned to and committed to my personal vision. With this shift I've begun to feel a wee bit estranged from Ansel. He's still a dear old friend and mentor, and I owe much to him. For the longest time, I must confess, I was trying to fill Ansel's shoes. As I finished lowering the sheet of plywood to the ground, I realized that I've moved on.
Why I'm an Artist
March 24, 2006
I think most parents would think twice before encouraging their child to become an artist. After all, who would wish a life of financial uncertainty and a difficult path toward unlikely success for someone you love? And yet, nearly every day, someone eminently successful from the world of business, science, technology or law comes into my gallery, and tells me that they envy the life that I have. Sensing the excitement, freedom, and glamor in leading an artistic life, they'll say, "I bet you're out there on those trails for hours and days on end, just following your heart." Or, "Don't you think it's wonderful being your own boss?"
The short response to both of these comments, is "You bet, it's great!" But, I seldom give that short reply, because it's really not that simple. I'll say that I do what I do because I have no choice. I'll also remind my visitor that because I do this artist thing, I take a big risk. I trade away my chance for financial security for the freedom to lead what I call an "authentic" life...to be who I truly am. And, lately, when I feel my 60 year old bones & ligaments ache in new ways, I wonder if I've made the right choice.
Tonight I sleep warmly in my van. It's a clear black night in the high desert near the Alabama Hills. Something stirs me from my dreams. I rise, pull on my clothing, and climb from the van to look around. Above, suspended in the midnight sky, are the twinkliest stars I've seen since I was a kid. I know I can just reach up and touch them! I feel very small and alone as I scan the sky. Then I see it...the moon, without even a trace of sunlight on it. It's fully aglow in earth light. I can't remember ever seeing it so beautiful. It looks like a dark etched glass sphere, mere feet from the reach of my arm. I'm struck by a mix of boundless joy and the sweetest sadness! Now, I remember why I'm an artist.