Painters are often asked, how do they know when a picture is perfect? (A fair question, indeed. Precisely why it has become cliché.)
Well, what if one paints with light? When is the image complete? When the idea takes hold in the brain? When you press the button on the camera? In the darkroom? On a gallery wall? Among the beholder’s thoughts, sauntering homeward?
Life’s first thirty years are capitalized, belong to great sighs that precede sentences, to intense beginnings. We start thoughts, only to leave them to themselves. Images remain stuck in the depth of a closet, unframable.
The thirtieth year tends to reflect, to slightly purge. To complete some sentences, or put three dots at the end of others. To dust and frame the pictures.
It’s happening here, and now. I shares some unfinished thoughts with you all. Will his images remain prints on a white wall? On as in a satiric fantasy – amongst you- will one of you take one home – one, to complete it, tomorrow, the day after, or years from now?