Saturday, January 31, 2009
Tori Amos No More
The astounding photo I had posted here of Tori Amos was apparently pilfered from the wrong site and today, just now in fact, they snatched it back. C'est la. If you saw it, it was good; maybe you can sense how good by reading the comments posted here:))
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Gertrude Kasebier
by Ellen Bass
The water over slick plates, river water
dark, thick, warm
as water is at night.
She pushes back her skirt, her sleeves
rolled above the elbow, dips her hands into the water,
soft, heavy, flooding the plates.
They told her photography is not creative.
She believed them
until now, these nights
her fingertips grooved like the sand of river beds,
the willow and black alder rustling, the owl's hoo hoo
resonating, she can feel its tremor in the water.
Wet. The wet scent of river mud, river grass.
Water is the color of night, liquid
black without reflection. River stones, the soft turf
of river bank, her own arms and hands
are vague in the shallow star light.
All night she crouches,
her knees imprinted with wet folds of her skirts,
her hands certain, familiar to water, fish.
All night the images emerge
in imperceptible degrees, as she dips and rinses,
dips and rinses, the rush of river
obscuring that faint hum of planets
until the lightening of
mass into form, shadow,
shades of gray, pale
tinge of color, dawn.
She gathers up her plates.
Walking back to the house she shivers,
thinks about breakfast, ham, buttered toast
in a pewter rack, the next night.
The water over slick plates, river water
dark, thick, warm
as water is at night.
She pushes back her skirt, her sleeves
rolled above the elbow, dips her hands into the water,
soft, heavy, flooding the plates.
They told her photography is not creative.
She believed them
until now, these nights
her fingertips grooved like the sand of river beds,
the willow and black alder rustling, the owl's hoo hoo
resonating, she can feel its tremor in the water.
Wet. The wet scent of river mud, river grass.
Water is the color of night, liquid
black without reflection. River stones, the soft turf
of river bank, her own arms and hands
are vague in the shallow star light.
All night she crouches,
her knees imprinted with wet folds of her skirts,
her hands certain, familiar to water, fish.
All night the images emerge
in imperceptible degrees, as she dips and rinses,
dips and rinses, the rush of river
obscuring that faint hum of planets
until the lightening of
mass into form, shadow,
shades of gray, pale
tinge of color, dawn.
She gathers up her plates.
Walking back to the house she shivers,
thinks about breakfast, ham, buttered toast
in a pewter rack, the next night.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
I Honor the Twin Stars of My Day: Baking & Cooking
I had a moment the other day when I realized that I've been working as a baker for 14 years. I had no idea that my first job at the Hometown Bakery with Dan and Mary Lang in Morris, Minnesota would lead to such a wonderful career. As a visual artist I don't think it's much of a stretch for me to love the beautiful, process oriented world of pastry... at long last these two worlds have collided in a photograph of my own hands at work.
The world in which I could make a portrait of myself as a baker - in the way I love to make portraits, in the moment - does not exist. I am so often on the other side of the camera or lost in thought as I roll dough or I'm covered in a goo that has no business near a camera that I never truly imagined the power of seeing myself, my hands, at work in a photo like this. I like it.
*photo by Katy Gerdes
Friday, January 23, 2009
Friday, January 09, 2009
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