I Thought I Was Taking Pictures Of

C.s. Lewis Admitted, When He Was Asked To Set Forth His Beliefs, That He Never Felt Less Sure Of Them Than When He Tried To Speak Of Them. Photographers Know This Frailty. To Them Words Are A Pallid, Diffuse Way Of Describing And Celebrating What Matters. Their Gift Is To See What Will Be Affecting As A Print. Mute.

Let Go Of The Thoughts, Let Go Of The Mind, Let Go Of Everything. Let Go! Drop It! Drop Everything. Hold Onto Nothing.

Little Wonder That We. . .find The Old Pictures Of Openness - Pictures Usually Without Any Blur, And Made By What Seems A Ritual Of Patience - Wonderful. They Restore To Us Knowledge Of A Place We Seek But Lose In The Rush Of Our Search. Though To Enjoy Even The Pictures, Much Less The Space Itself, Requires That We Be Still Longer Than Is Our Custom.

Beauty, Which I Admit To Being In Pursuit Of, Is An Extremely Suspect Word Among Many In The Art World. But I Don't Think You Can Get Along Without It. It's The Confirmation Of Meaning In Life.

When Photographers Get Beyond Copying The Achievements Of Others, Or Just Repeating Their Own Accidental First Successes, They Learn That They Do Not Know Where In The World They Will Find Pictures. Nobody Does. Each Photograph That Works Is A Revelation To Its Supposed Creator.