I’m reading “Write For Your Life” by Anna Quindlen. I like her perspective on revisions and rewriting in which the true shape of the work emerges. Anna is honest in saying that she’d rather do anything than revise her work. But she knows . . . work that has been edited and then revised is most often better than work that has not.

I love this part.

“But the problem for students, particularly students who are used to doing well, is that having a paper handed back for another go-round implies not a desire for improvement but a verdict of failure. There is something wrong. The problem for the teacher is that that’s not necessarily what she is saying. Looking at an essay is different from grading an algebra test. Either the numbers are correct or they are not. With an essay it’s sometimes like seeing a photograph that is slightly out of focus. The picture is compelling if only it were sharper.” —Anna Quindlen

With revision, there is the promise of something better, maybe even something really good.

I feel this way about photography, too. It’s often difficult to accept constructive criticism about my work, but there is no question my work is better for the input. It’s challenging to live with a project, moving photographs in and out and around. Editing and processing, over and over again with small changes and tweaks. Setting work aside. Embracing a body of work—loving it and unloving it depending on where you are in the process.

It was the church at the Westmoreland County line that I stopped to photograph. It’s rare to find a simple church these days. One with the essentials of space and places to sit and listen and learn and nothing more. Crossing the highway, what really caught my eye were the crossed wires, pulling at odds, to create tension and stability.

These pictures are the story of my life. Small, unremarkable, read perhaps by only me, but I will not let judgment prevent me from telling. The process is invaluable.

Pops of bright color
belie winter gray
till the flowers come.

practicing with film, Olympus om-1 and Kodak portra 400 . . .

 

Still Life with Chamomile Flowers and Kiwi

One Picture/One Paragraph

Every day I move my body. I stretch, roll, bend, twist, squat, lift, balance. I practice lengthening for posture to make space between vertebrae. I do breath work to strengthen the tiny weakened muscles along my spine (hello, mulitifidus). I do all of this to maintain mobility. Sometimes the movement feels like joy—fluid and rhythmic and easeful. But sometimes it’s hard to move when I am stiff, out-of-practice, unmotivated. In my sixties, exercise is more about mobility than performance. I’m not training for a 10K or participating in a plank challenge or trying to do a pull-up. What I am trying to do is to keep moving. To maintain function so that I can continue to create. Sometimes my photography practice is similar to my movement practice. I place a few simple objects on a table and set the camera on the tripod. I practice with the digital camera to get a sense of things, and then try both the 35mm film camera and the medium format film camera. Nothing is perfect. Not the light. Not the styling of the scene. And yet, I practice anyway. What I am trying to do is keep moving forward.

Winter Porch

One Picture/One Paragraph

The home where I grew up didn’t really have a front porch, but we had a big patio off the side of the ranch-style house. The patio had a table or two, rocking chairs and lawn chairs and an old metal glider—plenty of places to sit and visit. There was almost always a gentle cross breeze as our home was situated midway between the Potomac River and Monroe Bay. In my mother’s later years, she spent most all day out on the patio, as much as the weather would allow. She could count on a steady stream of visitors as people taking their daily walks would stop for a little chat, a cold glass of water or occasionally a trip to the bathroom. The patio was where I had my first kiss. It was where my sister got married and my son had his high school graduation party. It was simply a wrap-around porch unwound and spread out. Nowadays, when I see a front porch, especially one that is clearly used, I almost always take a photograph. Memory connects us to loss and longing.