No One, Though Has To Go To

Still Photographs Often Differ From Life More By Their Silence Than By The Immobility Of Their Subjects. Landscape Pictures Tend To Converge With Life, However, On Summer Nights, When The Sounds Outside, After We Call In Children And Close Garage Doors, Are Small - The Whir Of Moths, The Snap Of A Stick.

How Can We Hope, After All, To See A Tree Or Rock Or Clear North Sky If We Do Not Adopt A Little Of Their Mode Of Life, A Little Of Their Time? If The Time It Takes To Cross Space Is A Way By Which We Define It, Then To Arrive At A View Of Space “in No Time” Is To Have Denied Its Reality

I Keep Calling It The I-thought. It's A Thought. There Is No I. This Gives You A Clue.

... If We Consider The Difference Between William Henry Jackson Packing In His Camera By Mule, And The Person Stepping For A Moment From His Car To Take A Picture With His Instamatic, It Becomes Clear How Some Of Our Space Has Vanished; If The Time It Takes To Cross Space Is A Way By Which We Define It, Then To Arrive At A View Of Space 'in No Time' Is To Have Denied Its Reality.

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.