It’s audience participation time!
I have not played with the colors in any of these photographs, though nature’s quirky lighting did its fair share of tinkering.
Only three are by the sea. Only one was taken inside. Two were taken on the grounds of a Museum of Fine Arts.
“Public Welcome Dawn to Dusk.“
The text is nearly as minimal as the soundtrack. If I am perfectly still I can hear only a distant hollow echo from cracking ice and a few birds’ songs: one trills in just two notes, holding the second three times as long as the first; another is stridently percussive; and one, a bird I cannot see, startles me with a sustained keening chord, the sound I imagine a bird would make were it impersonating a distressed beagle.
I am the only person here, no more or less alone than I would be in the space between dusk and dawn, when there’s no sunlight anymore:
More clouds appeared until the sky went black
And now there’s
And now there’s
No sunlight anymore.
I wonder what happens when the light goes down and humans no longer are welcome here. Do robins stop fleeing to the higher branches where they cock their heads mistrustfully at intruders wearing unnatural colors? Do owls cast disapproving looks and keep the chipmunks from partying too exuberantly? What happens here at the midnight hour?
Beautifully Abandoned, Dublin, Ireland
“Why did you leave me?” the Sixth Sense widow asked the space her husband had occupied with her.
Neither her husband nor mine chose to leave, but death leaves people behind–unmoored, unsettled, unwhole. Abandoned.
In Dublin, an abandoned home sits directly across the road from an empty bench overlooking the striated sea, just east of the spot where I scattered a seashell of Jim’s ashes into pastel sea foam barely distinguishable from pale cream sand and powdery sky.
Its oceanfront gate is secured by a sea salt-corroded chain and a hefty padlock that is conspicuously less worn. Where a window once allowed people to see in and out, Kelly green paint peels away from a wooden frame and a teal-painted brick barrier. An archway over the front door appears to be missing, its peak shorn off to reveal a peek of skeletonized facade. Both a nautilus-shaped latch and the iron fleurs de lis atop the gate–some of them tilted ever so slightly to starboard–are pocked with rough cinnamon patches of rust. Continue reading
As the mother of two girls and two boys–including a Noah–I am more accustomed to thinking in terms of “two by two,” but this week’s pictorial homage is to the number three.
I shall offer up something a bit less disturbing than, say, an Hieronymous Bosch triptych:
How about a three-dimensional art installation. . . made from coffee cups?