Photography Thinks
So, some of you may know Theodore, Sharon’s bear from childhood. He used to come to court with me, riding in my brief case. Judge Archie Gorfinkel signed the adoption papers at our wedding. He always has a positive attitude and strong opinions about life, love and the pursuit of happiness. He has been a part of Sharon’s life, forever.
Photogs and artists thrive on self portraits. We have to. Hard to find subjects to photograph or paint who have the patience to sit or the desire to be exposed, not to mention the willingness to pay. We do it to improve our art, improve our skills and fill the time.
Now all of a sudden, it’s the in thing. The Nude Selfie is high art. I post a picture with a little skin and people give me shit. You can bet that in this over 55 community people won’t be flocking to have their nude images done, especially the women. And the last thing a young girl wants to do is be photographed in the nude by a 72.66 year old man.
So, I am stuck with myself. Don’t forget cocktail hour, either. Have a Gibson.
DO NOT INGEST CLOROX or RUBBING ALCOHOL or BEAMS of LIGHT
That idiot TRUMP can get US killed in so many ways that have not even been contemplated. He lies cheats and steals and fools from the South and impoverished zones who hate intelligence and feelings for others believe him. I almost wish that some of his follows would take his advice and try these cures. After all, some of them believe that GOD will save them.
Many of them dress differently so you can identify them and avoid them and their thoughts. They don’t do vaccines. Others were red hats which suggest that America was great at some unidentifiable time.
My favorite artists, at least for today. Human and productive. Sensitive, maybe too much. Very much alive. Much of what I know about art comes from studying them.
Stieglitz “contributed not only scientific and artistic photographic studies, but also introduced modern art to America and furthered the theory of photography as art.” In his time, the greatest photographer living.
Van Gogh was mentally ill, an affliction that didn’t interfere with his love of color. Prolific and introspective, he cut off his ear, because of some problem he has a a bordello. He was checked into a mental hospital, got better and did a self portrait which he sent to him mother. Bold, emotional, impulsive. No mystery in his work.
Cezanne, the father of all modern art, somber tones, geometric shapes. Tried to shock the staid salon members with his nudes and ambiguous forms. Acted out. Didn’t observe the rules of human interaction or painting. Didn’t like photography, but may have used it to copy from. Preferred his studio where he could produce more orderly organized images to the outdoors. Always had a story which he didn’t tell.
Back to my work, whatever it is. Like Van Gogh and Cezanne, no one will appreciate my art during my life. Unlike them, I will have no after life. But, then, I am not them. But I will leave a few self-portrtaits just like they did.
I fight the battle of Corona and CLL from all fronts. Keeping my mind active as a photog, my body strong by walking and biking and my system enriched. Who do the voodoo that you do so well. We all be human, mortal people, whose life spans happen when they happen. Keep the pills coming and the vodka chilled.
So, time flies when you are having a good time, eh. Not that cooped up, but enough to stop the analysis of the past. It will never change and whatever story I have to tell will remain in my head. I don’t have to wonder if I will survive this, I may. But little difference will come of it. My CLL limits my life expectancy anyway. Much I didn’t do because of my limitations. On to filling the rest of the time with who knows what, except that fame and fortune have escaped me. Keep in mind, it’s a cromulent world.
I see many people walking past my house in Valencia Reserve whom I don’t know. The other night, as I looked at a full moon shining through the trees, a man walked by. Compositionally, he made the frame. Three shots. Moon moved. He moved. I needed to adjust the exposure. I got it.
What’s your name, I asked. Ronnie, I live at 9163, around the corner. Printed the image. Put in his mailbox after wiping it down with my card. He called to thank me. I don’t remember ever seeing him, other than as he drove by and he lives 4 houses away.
There may not be many positive things to say about living in lockdown.
“At 11 percent ABV, it’s the kind of sticky sweet wine that gets glugged like juice at the dinner table, resulting in a collective morning-after headache for everyone involved. All the same, Manischewitz is ingrained in Jewish culture.” People still drink it.
At Publix, the well stocked bar didn’t seem to be attracting many customers. Surprising, since FL is the home to many aged Jews who can still remember their first Passover. But then again, we are in the midst of a plague and no one wants a hangover to compete with symptoms of the Corona virus.
My Mother died. She had a heart attack as I was being savaged by the Mayor and Governor. NO support from my colleagues, the little family I had and no defense from my superiors. To this day, the story still hasn’t been told.
I wasn’t with her when she died. My father died when I was a kid. I wasn’t with him either.
So, it was time, time to get rid of the beard. I cannot remember how long I had it or how many shapes it has had, but enough. I hadn’t seen myself, except for my eyes in years, which isn’t a bad thing for a studio portrait photographer. And, in addition to having to clean after every meal and dealing with underlying skin problems, I thought it would be healthier in the Covid epidemic to not have a virus catcher near my eyes and nose.
Sharon waited patiently as I shaved. She said I looked more handsome than ever and then we did the shoot.
