Capturing travel through space in time, evoking movement by making it static.
When divergent worlds converge, we pick up strands to weave a tapestry of something of our own making. When does art become art and an artist an artist? Who is meeting whom? Are they coming together or moving apart? Who is it that thinks these strands go together? Only I can know the connection of how the correspondences merged into one.
Reacting to life, creating images, with or without a camera: the video letters, a creative dialogue between two men; the tale of a trip, a creative dialogue between memories and the present, of one; and I interact with both of them, an inner dialogue that creates this. What was it that connected these two? The pace, the self-reflective narrative voices, the intimacy, the lighting, the intertwined bits and pieces of experience, intertwined with my own experiences, my own desires. Paris, Mendoza, San Juan, New York, the journey, the café, film, music, the streets, performance, a box with the same cover as a box I used to store stationary and old letters in; Jose Luis, Jonas, Francene, Antonio, friends who shared their interests, their lives, that I wove together to speak about mine, without them ever knowing.
“To rehearse over and over every moment of our lives until each one turns out right or at least comes closest to the ideal moment; with a stage or film director we could try out each situation, each moment, each circumstance several times, until it is comes closest to what we hope for.”
Reality is not, as Jonas says, what we interact with, touch, drink, know. It is not so much an attitude as a perception, what we make of it. It is not the object. It is the meaning we give to the object and that is not static, nor definitive. Nor can it be perfected or aligned with what we hoped for. Creation is done in real time, every time we interact with what is in front of us, each time is perfect, whether we hoped for it or not. And it is always our own.
All the best,
Let’s keep in touch.
It was 5:30 in the morning and the moon shone bright as I drove down Wiles Road. It was a waxing crescent moon, high in the western sky. I like getting up early in the morning. I fight it at first, but the fresh predawn air and quiet stillness is the best reward. 5:30 in the morning, sitting on the porch, drinking mate, my feet on the railing of the balcony, looking out toward the southwest. It’s the same moon you see setting over the mountains. Passion, Grace & Fire played from a cassette. A bag of them, circa 1990, sat on the floor behind the front seat of the van, circa 1998. The windows were rolled down and the traffic lights glared in the darkness. Sometimes I wish every moment was 5:30 in the morning and all that existed was the moment before anything was supposed to happen.
Some people have melodies running through their heads. And they sit and write songs. Others have poetry or stories. All I have are dreams.
Ideas fluttering around in my mind and stomach like butterflies. Beautiful and graceful, fleeting and short lived.
I want to be a sloth or a turtle. Slowly reaching for the leaf or changing positions. Continually moving toward something.
Just like the quote below, listening to Oblivion is like walking through a movie, and I am the protagonist; alone, seeing myself move slowly through the kitchen, chopping leeks and red peppers, beating the eggs and cream, gazing out the window, knowing that soon, the scene will change and something new will walk into my life.