February 19, 2011. There is little snow to hide this lost mitten, and so it is evolving, gathering bits of leaves and grass to cover itself and ensure its ability to survive. All is lost if someone picks it up and tames it. Then it will stop evolving and live a comfortable life in someones drawer, with other gloves, safe and comfortable, but never challenged. What will it become if left alone. How deep will it go to become one with its surroundings and stay to see another day in Central Park.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
February 12, 2011. Snow blankets the ground as far as you can see, and meets the sky but barely changes color, impacted only by the difference of sky and earth. There must be a gradual rise behind the figures moving against this backdrop, but maybe not, maybe it is a sheer cliff. I know what it is because I am familiar, and I understand the figures and playing snow softball. We are compelled to go outdoors and vigorously trammel the snow, expand ourselves against the elements, exert our right to be - here and now.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
February 8, 2011. I finished an early and strenuous day, filled with faces and forms and questions, and then passed this portrait. I imagine that the artist saw this gray shape, and like a sculptor, could see how to liberate the form within. Did she look at it and think that it was a shame the rest of us couldn't see it, or did she think that the face was longing to become visible? It was there and was brought out to life.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
February 1, 2011. There is no picture, except that which is now lodged in my memory. My camera could not pierce the darkness to capture the moment, but in my mind it still sits there, vivid and compelling. I was at the bottom of Cat Hill, they were at the top. Five runners, their frozen exhalations hung above their heads, hanging in the air around them. The light from the street lamp illuminated the space between their bodies and between their legs. They were like stick men in the distance, but with muscle and mass. They walked slowly toward me, ambling, talking, casual. The shadows bounced off the wet roadway, shimmering from the drops of sleet that peppered my face.