I am blind. How then do I begin to account from the un-seeing? If not inside the chaotic and frantic harbor of our body, where then can we seek to remedy the channels by which we seek an understanding of things? Later, this: curved, wearied back stretching beneath the darkening porch light, I sit and fight the perpetual battle: should I write in response to a thought or sound or voice with which I travel. How best to suggest similarity: the propinquity of our perpetual disappearance. So this: I recall my wife’s feet scratching against the pavement of an October evening while my son’s air-chasing echo’d words called to us to catch up. I realized that I could never detail how both of those sounds entered my blood and unseated the blindness in which I find myself most of the time: how to give physical body to that which carves us invisibly. Inside the accordion flaps which is my photography, I have tried to capture with the blind basket of my eyes, those things which pass around, through and inside me, corporal or fleeting: bereft breathing. There is no truth in photography but in the sovereignty of the inner landscape of our life’s reckoning selves. We wane. We expand. We seed. We hunger. We are blind. What else can we do? We do not resist.

I


p.s. O, okay, a real bio: I teach, I stalk light, I develop light, I write, I scribble, I create and curate a weekly photography projection series of international photographers along with my wife, I drink, I laugh, I breathe, I live…..

What else is a poor boy to do? ;)

my weekly photography projection project:

http://www.indexg.com/screening.asp

http://indexg.com/screening_archive.asp