Rob, I am unsettled by your images. Dark, as if a soul is trying to get out of prison.
JR
I kinda think that when we have nothing pressing to do, we come to realise that we
are in some kind of, well, not exactly prison, but certainly a waiting room to somewhere.
Work, family, all of those things isolate the mind from the unknown that awaits further down the track. I think it's an unavoidable part of art to investigate - scratch the surface? - of that place that eludes us so well. Russ' poems and prose reach towards that unprovable place we feel is there; the problem is that we have no clue as to the nature of there. Perhaps one can play out emotions through photography, certainly after the event even if the sense of that event is not quite fully-formed at capture. Interpretation must, I suppose, be based upon the emotional conditions of the mind doing the work.
Or maybe not: maybe it would provoke the same flavour of visual emotion regardless of circumstances in which the artist finds himself. I guess we might even be able to agree that is probably true because personal style remains, through good times and bad.
I wonder if our dogs ever travelled this path as they lay, head between paws, dozing in front of the fireplace. The horse to which I feed carrots now and again, standing, eyes open but patently asleep much of the time, does she exist only within the confines of her field, does she think wider dreams? On their own terms, hard to think why not.
