Thursday, 16 November 2017

I'm a very rare sort of bear


'The bear puffed out its chest. "I'm a very rare sort of bear," he replied importantly. "There aren't many of us left where I come from."' ~ Paddington Bear

Tuesday, 14 November 2017

Like pearls slipping off a string

I have arrived at the decision not to pursue the will to make portraits. We are in a changing time, in an era saturated by images. People have a poor judgment on what is quality photography with that ability of using apps to take pictures and all those preset things that «photographers» apply on their portraits. There are even exhibitions of «phone photography» which shows the curve in the practice of the art we are engaged into. It is not working; here people don't want to put money into artistic photography and there are so many improvised photographers, offering poor quality photographs for cheap prices which spoils the art and profession of experienced artists. I had exposure and reviews in many different papers and festivals and even if it brought exposure, it didn't bring work. I will continue to practice my art as I did since forever, on a personal basis, for the love and passion of it. That is to be real to myself. Those words Virginia Woolf wrote in a letter to her friend are in echo to all forms of arts in the process of finding the right path:
'As for the mot juste, you are quite wrong. Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can't use the wrong words. But on the other hand here I am sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can't dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm. Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it; and in writing (such is my present belief) one has to recapture this, and set this working (which has nothing apparently to do with words) and then, as it breaks and tumbles in the mind, it makes words to fit it. But no doubt I shall think differently next year.' ~ Virginia Woolf, letter to her friend Vita Sackville-West

In creativity it is always positive to loose onelsef's own benchmarks. After a year of exploration, observing and perceiving what is made in photography now, I felt in between, in uncertain land about my own photography. I experienced a few things, which led me to feel empoverished and empty. Then, one morning I woke up and felt it was the moment to come back to my own universe. And I entered that new odyssey through my art. 
“Behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we -- I mean all human beings -- are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself." ~ Virginia Woolf, A Sketch of the Past
To me, making photography has a spiritual meaning which enriches me and gives me the ability, as I already mentionned in another post, to face the most difficult moments. But also to bring to the world my part of what I consider beauty. 

Making photography through the years, I realized that the light isn't ours to own; it's merely borrowed and reflected back; that moment preservation is as humbling as anything I had experienced; and there is a deep beauty swimming beneath almost every surface. It is merely a matter of holding your breath and diving in to find it.

Art is the most delicious salve. It heals, it renews, it awakens, it sets me free. It may not be a cure, but it can transform pain into something less ugly, something that can only enrich who we already are and that in and of itself is a miracle.

I am an artist because I am also a survivalist.


“After all," Anne had said to Marilla once, "I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.”
~ L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea

Saturday, 28 October 2017

The dewy freshness of the hour


Up at dawn, the dewy freshness of the hour, the morning rapture of the birds, the daily miracle of sunrise, set her heart in tune, and gave her Nature's most healing balm. ~Louisa May Alcott, "In the Strawberry Bed," Work: A Story of Experience, 1873

Wednesday, 18 October 2017

A fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs


“If the day and the night are such that you greet them with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs, is more elastic, more starry, more immortal- that is your success. All nature is your congratulation, and you have cause momentarily to bless yourself. The greatest gains and values are farthest from being appreciated. We easily come to doubt if they exist. We soon forget them. They are the highest reality. Perhaps the facts most astounding and most real are never communicated by man to man. The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.”
~ Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Tuesday, 10 October 2017

Heaven's ebon vault


Heaven's ebon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world.
~Percy Bysshe Shelley

Sunday, 8 October 2017

O hushed October morning mild


O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all...
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief...
At noon release another leaf...
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
~Robert Frost, "October," A Boy's Will, 1913

Friday, 6 October 2017

October is the month for painted leaves


October is the month for painted leaves.... As fruits and leaves and the day itself acquire a bright tint just before they fall, so the year near its setting. October is its sunset sky; November the later twilight. ~Henry David Thoreau, "Autumnal Tints"

Wednesday, 4 October 2017

This secret luminous place


"There’s a confusion in each of us, a sickness, really: selfishness. Be a good and proactive and even somewhat desperate patient on your own behalf -- seek out the most efficacious anti-selfishness medicines, energetically, for the rest of your life.


"Do all the other things, the ambitious things -- travel, get rich, get famous, innovate, lead, fall in love, make and lose fortunes, swim naked in wild jungle rivers (after first having it tested for monkey poop) -- but as you do, to the extent that you can, err in the direction of kindness. Do those things that incline you toward the big questions, and avoid the things that would reduce you and make you trivial. That luminous part of you that exists beyond personality -- your soul, if you will -- is as bright and shining as any that has ever been. Bright as Shakespeare’s, bright as Gandhi’s, bright as Mother Teresa’s. Clear away everything that keeps you separate from this secret luminous place. Believe it exists, come to know it better, nurture it, share its fruits tirelessly."
~George Saunders

Monday, 2 October 2017

The infinite expectation of the dawn


“We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us even in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavour. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.”
~ Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Wednesday, 27 September 2017

Life in the Woods


“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms...”
~ Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Saturday, 23 September 2017

To gather Paradise


I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –

~ Emily Dickinson

Tuesday, 19 September 2017

More so than the brightest dreams of poetry


The transparent haze which rests upon the mountain-top at noon,—the calmness in the air, and the clearness of the sky, now have a most mysterious influence upon the heart. The "still small voice" of nature makes us thoughtful; and seems to invite us to think upon the swiftness with which our days are passing away. How often at such an hour, have I been startled by the beating of my own heart! And the sunsets of Autumn,—are they not gorgeous beyond description? more so than the brightest dreams of poetry? ~Charles Lanman, "The Dying Year," 1840

Monday, 18 September 2017

A constellations of apples


The bees will buzz you a welcome from the hives at the end, and then the trees will stoop down about you, and you can look up into a green sky set with constellations of apples. ~Margaret Troili, “Woods of Mendocino,” Out West: A Magazine of the Old Pacific and the New, June 1908