Saturday, February 22, 2014

Clay: Role-Play




Medea, clay figurine: 
stoneware; brown glazing; copper wire.
Stunt model for . . . 

"Ophelia Revised" photo sequence.
Strawberry Creek standing in for Elsinore's waterway.



Monday, February 17, 2014

Beckoning


Arch Rock
Sonoma Coast

Seal-Bird Island and the Rocking Zoom


That sort of fringe on the top of the rocky islet?  Can you see what I mean?  (Move a little closer; enlarge the shot, perhaps.)  I am fairly sure those are birds, standing tall in the wind.   Or, a good many of them are birds, though some are seals, noses held high.

At first I thought they were all seals, a whole lot of seals providing that visual fringe effect, and in fact the creatures on the rocks closer to the water are seals, dozens of them.  

(What do you call a whole lot of seals?  A salvage of seals? A savory?  A soiree? A sea?  A season?)


Now, I'll give you a sequence of shots that illustrate the difficulties of attempting to use the zoom on my amphibious camera -- a camera better suited to close-ups and arm's-length captures -- while balancing in a closed-deck kayak.  I love the motion, myself, but the results are a bit up-and-down in quality.




Off Bodega Bay on a very sunny day.

Happy paddling.

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Model Behavior

I miss sculpting.
Older pieces, gathering dust here.

Feet Of Clay


"What can I tell you, Carson," I had to say aloud, "that you don't already know?" The pottery wheel slowed to a full stop. I set both feet squarely on the floor. Before me, the clay glistened, a wet lump.  I spoke again to the shadows, to the clay masks I’d hung on every wall. Empty eyeholes stared back at me.  I had to raise my voice. "Omniscience, you know, being the purview of the dead?"

--draft sentences, stepping into a new story

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Tidal Flower









1/30/14

I mean, tidal animal.

Monday, February 3, 2014

Ashes of an Old Poem, Sparks for a New Poem?



Nights, I built fires from the wood
You did not chop.

--MD


This opening sentence has come back to mind recently, and I've been trying to recall the rest of this poem that I'd written in, oh, Winter Quarter 1980 -- in Carl Dennis' 46B: Intro to Poetry Class.  I used to recite the poem to myself as I walked to and from campus, so the memory may be deep and so retrievable.  The setting was a trip down a river, two characters and two canoes, a definite lack of appreciation on the one hand, and a distinct inability to make headway that mattered on the other.  Rocks and rapids, of course, provided the physical obstacles.  I recall a class discussion of the poem, actually, that lasted a good amount of time, which was both alarming and encouraging to me, as my classmates debated the dynamics between the characters.  I was so shy then and speechless; Prof. Dennis assured me afterwards that the lengthy discussion itself, more than the particular comments, was a mark of success in that my poem had held attention.  That was kind.

I can't seem to find the old poem itself, which is only surprising after all these years if you understand just how many manuscripts and notebooks and what-have-you I've kept year after year after year.  Which is part of the problem, no doubt.

I guess I could or should write a new poem.  Maybe I'll pick up from where the memory has left off . . . .

Or, maybe I'll leave that fragment alone.  Let the one image stand.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Nudibranch: Three Views






Eelfish Sighting




Exploration's Joy

When I first found and read Charles De Lint's "The Little Country" back in grad school--on the heels of De Lint's "Dreams Underfoot"--it felt as if I were rediscovering the best aspects of play and treasure-hunting and discovery itself. I was having a fine time as a Renaissance / Medieval / Restoration / Neoclassic / Romantic specialist--I kept changing my fields, for I'm a hungry and ambitious generalist at heart--but I was spending my days and nights bearing down perhaps too hard as a student, as a researcher, and not as the learner, as the adult-child, as the explorer that I am most at home being. I relearned to refresh my professional studies with such spirited and generous storytelling--and to bring such spirit and generosity to my professional duties in the classroom and in the carrel.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Can You See The Eyes? Those Are Eyes, Right?


HMB: Landscapes, Waterscapes











There may be a few waterdrops on the lens here.  I don't care, this time, here.