every photograph—
a crude point-and-click
or one of Ansel’s silvery scapes—
is just the capture of light
no more
no less either
such minimalism
offers little to relieve
the weight of timing
or ensure light’s presence
we waited
till my lenses went bad
and hers, for a time, repaired
till our batteries
and bank accounts
held a stronger charge
till hope outgrew fear
and the balance shift
launched new momentum
till one afternoon
in a doctor’s office
she suddenly sensed
our hearts
were vastly bigger
than we had feared
or dreamed
the fear gave way
and our dream changed
we prayed for timing
and hoped we’d captured
the right light
letting little of our shadows in
and waited
no Polaroid instant view—
this precious print
we left to the strange arts
of the dark room
developing slowly
in water, chemicals
fluid bath
features emerging
from amorphous blots
to uncanny complexity
then one October midnight
out into the light
thrust out and passed around
a delicate, fresh work of art
impossibly tiny reproductions
of every detail of us
our fears allayed:
this print bore both of ours
without obvious defect
we studied her
turned her around
carefully
taking great pains
to preserve
her fearful fragility
yet smudging every surface inch
with our greasy fingers
nonetheless
what we know now
and could not know then
was that in this—
as in all arts—
there is no fixed medium
no drying of pigment
no setting of form
no instant crystallized
no freezing of frame
no final take
nor is light ever captured
it flows
races
transfuses
ceaselessly
with ungodly
and Godly
swiftness
from us through us in us
and thankfully beyond
August 06
Posted by kevinreeve 
Posted by kevinreeve 
Posted by kevinreeve 