Hey, Les.
That Roman cave reminds me of my dreams, which of late have teemed with illicit and debased liaisons. I’m drawn to those eroded human figures on the columns, caryatid and telamon, degraded shadows of their full-bodied selves. Barely capable of breath, let alone any other engagement. Doomed to become less and less, Les.
Cheerily yrs,
I still haven’t heard from Lester, but I wanted to thank you for you forthcoming response to the cave picture. Your honesty makes me think of something Minor White said:
“”Morbid” is the word most frequently applied to a knowing study of a photograph for what it might reveal of the true nature of the viewer. It would seem that any soul searching, or attempt to discover what Plato meant by “Know Thyself” is considered sickness of some sort by many contemporary Americans. In spite of protests, our own psychology finds a way to see what it wants to see in the world of appearances.”
Speaking of which, in the same park where I photographed the cave, I think I made an ‘equivalent’ in honor of Minor White:
Hi Osage (hope your big dig is going well), Hi Alec (why don’t you email me privately next time, you self-promoting schmuck)…
All this talk of equivalents has me thinking of the piece Steiglitz wrote called “How I Came to Photograph Clouds.” Sounds like Steiglitz was as broken as the three of us:
“My mother was dying. Our estate was going to pieces. The old horse of 37 was being kept alive by the 70-year-old coachman. I, full of the feeling of today: all about me disintegration—slow but sure: dying chestnut trees—all the chestnuts in this country have been dying for years: the pines doomed too—diseased: I, poor, but at work: the world in a great mess: the human being a queer animal—not as dignified as our giant chestnut tree on the hill. So I made up my mind I’d answer Mr. Frank and my brother-in-law. I’d finally do something I had in mind for years. I’d make a series of cloud pictures.”
Lester
Or as Bill Klein says
“Trance Witness Revels”
LRM