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I have been working in photography off and on for 20 years. I am a Computer Systems
Administrator, by day, and a would be artist by night.
I have submitted work in amateur shows at various county fairs, and have won some
awards. About a year ago, I started seriously focusing on photography again. It is
kind of a catharsis for me. I went back to a manual camera, which I finds gets you
back in touch with the process of photography. It allows you to "see" what
you are creating an image of. About 3 years ago, I started writing. Mainly for my
own benefit, but writing all the same. I noticed with a couple of photographs, prose
came to mind while I was creating the image. "Of Future, Past" was one
of the more forceful. Probably because it hits so close to home. I have shown the
image and the full text to other people who are taking care of parents, and it seems
to be both upsetting and comforting at the same time. Below I have added the full
text, and a link to the web versions, and samples of other images.
The internal dialogue that I have when I create an image, I find interesting. I often
wonder if what we feel when we look at a photograph, is anywhere close to what the
photographer was feeling. Because the images strike me just the same way that strong
dialogue occur to me, I have started compiling the images with the prose. |
"Of Future, Past" (full text)
Through the rain soaked window pane,
I see my past.
The house with ghosts,
from 6 years to 18 and more.
Some happy, some sad.
They speak to me in whispers,
They touch me like a gentle breeze,
before the storm.
I let the storm front flood over me.
I am drenched, but I survive.
Do I see my future through,
this same pane of glass?
Older now almost a child.
or is it child like again?
His memories of me have faded,
but his smile is still as bright,
it's just doesn't come as easy anymore,
and finding it is much more important now.
It does not comfort me as much as it use to.
Why do we have to fade?
Are my memories of him
strong enough for both of us?
They keep me up when I should be way down.
It is just, I can't share them with my father anymore.
I know he is proud of me,
even though he can not hold the thought of me,
long enough to remember my name.
The traits I have I owe to him, and
that's the part of him,
which will always be alive and well,
though at time it brings great sadness,
I know in time they will also bring great joy.
Where ever I am, I will remember you.
When I do the things you and I enjoyed,
I will honor you and
the memories you no longer have.
As I watch you fade, I will hold you,
and think of all that you have done for me.
I am grateful to have known,
the man I call my father,
a man who's compassion and love of me and of life,
seemed limitless,
a man who taught me to see the brighter side,
of everyone and everything I encounter in life. |
RoseI
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