One of the reasons I refer to this space as a sketchbook is because it is a place for ideas and exploration. This isn’t a portfolio of perfect images or a gallery of my best work. Instead, it is a record of my experiments and efforts. My curious mind thrives in this environment and my inner critic is banished if she ever tries to show up.
—Homesick—
Even though I live only about an hour’s drive from the place I grew up, I still sometimes feel homesick. I know the route home like the back of my own hand, every winding vein and sun spot. But once in my small town, I marvel at how much has changed. When I was a child, my grandparents, BigHead and Dot, lived in what I thought was the biggest house in town. The house had a second story and sat overlooking Monroe Bay. These days, the house is dwarfed by oversized villas and beach cottages on steroids. The town is still small, the same size as when I lived there, and yet somehow big houses are squeezed in every which way, all vying for some small view of the water.
I explore, feeling a bit like a tourist in my own hometown. I wander along side streets, crossing the four-block width of the peninsula, zig-zagging back and forth. I venture toward the outskirts of town and pull over to take this photograph. A field of wild daylilies, spread like a quilt across a stream, tucked just inside the Potomac River, near the home where old George Mason (the town’s only lawyer) once lived.
A lady and her fluffy little dog come out of the house. She watches me side-eyed as if trying to decide what I might be up to, standing there in the gully taking this picture. I am undaunted. I wave hello and shout that I stopped because of this breathtaking view—the sun skittering along the daylily quilt like so many tiny stitches made by hand. I tell her my name, but that is not enough. She wants to know my maiden name, too. When I tell her, she nods her head and says, “Yes, you look like your people. You’re okay.”
I laugh out loud and say back, “Of course I’m okay. This is my home.”
So much to do still, all of it praise. —Dereck Walcott
Doc’s Motor Court, Room No.5
I’ve pressed the shutter on my Canon 5D Mark III over and over and over again. I bought the camera used 5 years ago and I hardly go a day without taking a picture. But lately I’ve noticed the shutter button is very sensitive. Sometimes when I press halfway to focus, the camera just goes ahead and takes the picture as though it has a mind of its own. I’ve done some research and thought about upgrading to the Canon 5D Mark IV and there are some decent arguments for a new camera. But none that seem to justify the hefty price tag—at least not right now. There are practical constraints like the new roof we need. First things first.
For some reason, I hadn’t even considered having my camera repaired. Probably because I’ve never had a problem before, and then to, I figured the cost of repair would be prohibitive. But I was wrong. I submitted a work order to Canon this morning and the cost of repair is estimated at $142. What a sweet surprise! Finally, something I CAN afford. So we’ve boxed my camera up and sent it on its way to the Canon Repair Center in Glendale, California.
I feel a little lost just knowing the camera won’t sit next to me all day long. But I figure these next few weeks will be a good time to practice with my film camera. And I’m working on processing images for a photo-poetic project I’m doing with my friend, Susan Carter Morgan. So I think I’ll have plenty to keep my need for creative work met. And perhaps this will be a time for rejuvenation and self-care.