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This year I asked myself, like so many Sicilian and non-Sicilian photographers, where to go to take pictures for Good Friday, to discover one of the many popular traditions scattered throughout Sicily, in fact Easter in Sicily is a cathartic moment for those in search of traditional popular events, to be able to tell with words and above all (for those like me) with photographs, a research that may appear not without contradictions, for example for that great Sicilian thinker who was Leonardo Sciascia, for he Sicily cannot be called Christian, which he defined the Sicilian festivals, at best it is only in appearance, in those properly pagan explosions, tolerated by the Church; Sciascia deals with the topic as an introductory essay in the book "Religious feasts in Sicily" (a volume that is still found on flea markets at ever higher prices), illustrated with photographs of a young and still unknown Ferdinando Scianna (in the first edition they made a mistake also his name, Fernando Scianna can be read on the cover), a book that did not fail to raise some controversy precisely because of the introductory note of the Sicilian thinker, appearing in open controversy with the sacredness of that popular devotion (so much so that the book was the subject of a criticized by the newspaper of the Holy See, The Roman Observer), Sciascia writes “What is a religious feast in Sicily? It would be easy to answer that it's anything but a religious holiday. It is, above all, an existential explosion; the explosion of the collective id, where the collectivity exists only at the level of the id. Because it is only in celebration that the Sicilian emerges from his condition as a lonely man, which is after all the condition of his vigilant and painful superego, to find himself part of a class, a class, a city ”. Going back over the thought of Gesualdo Bufalino, Sicilian writer and poet, we find interesting indications on the meaning that the Sicilians give to these traditional popular events, he says "during Easter every Sicilian feels not only a spectator, but an actor, before sorrowful and then exultant, for a Mystery which is its very existence. The time of the event is that of Spring, the season of metamorphosis, just as metamorphic is the very nature of the ritual in which, as in a story from the “Opera dei Pupi” (Puppets work), the fight of Good against Evil is fought. The Deception, the Pain and the Triumph, the Passion, the Death and the Resurrection of Christ are present”.
In short, Easter in Sicily is a recurrence deeply felt throughout the island since ancient times, it has always had the moving participation of the people as its fulcrum, with representations and processions that have become rites and traditions that unequivocally characterize many Sicilian towns, which recall the most salient moments narrated in the Gospels and which recall the Passion, Death and Resurrection of Jesus Christ, with processions formed by the various brotherhoods (sometimes with theatrical re-enactments) which have in themselves contents and symbols often coming from the Spanish domination, which in Sicily between the 16th and 17th centuries.
Returning to my question, expressed at the beginning, I had several suggestions from friends and acquaintances, among these a nurse friend of mine, originally from Leonforte, Vincenzo, managed to tickle my interest in a particular way, hence the photographic story that I present, made this year, is that of the Good Friday procession of Leonforte.
The procession begins in the late morning, which proceeds from the Oratory to the Mother Church, through the Piazzale Matrice, during the short journey the Stations of the Cross are meditated on; the procession that advances towards the Cathedral (which will represent Golgotha, because it is there that the Crucifixion of Christ will take place) is started by a large Cross, behind it proceed two long lines of sisters and brothers, there are those who carry cushions with nails, the crown of thorns, and the sheet of the deposition with a "Red Rose" on it; then we find Christ with an uncovered face supported by five brothers, followed by the Virgin of Sorrows, carried on the shoulders of the confraternity of the same name. At noon, inside the Mother Church, once in front of the Cross, the statue with jointed arms is "crucified". When dusk comes everything is ready for the procession, which starts from the Mother Church with the rite of the deposition of Christ down from the Cross, which is taken care of by the priests; the procession winds along an estimated route of just over 7 km, involving the 13 churches of Leonforte (thirteen as there are stations of the “Way of the Cross”), a procession called "'U Mulimentu", a term that indicates the sepulcher which it guarded for three days the body of Christ before his Resurrection (The procession of the “'U Mulimentu” can be dated around 1650). This itinerary also includes the lighting of a huge bonfire placed in the square in front of the " Great Fountain of Leonforte" (built on the remains of an ancient Arab fountain), from whose 24 spouts water does not come out only on Good Friday, as a sign of mourning the death of Christ.
…………………………………………………………………..
Quest’anno mi ponevo la domanda, come tanti fotografi, siciliani e non, dove recarmi a realizzare fotografie per il Venerdì Santo, alla scoperta di una delle tantissime tradizioni popolari sparse in tutta la Sicilia, la Pasqua infatti in Sicilia, è un momento catartico per chi è alla ricerca di eventi popolari tradizionali, da poter così raccontare con parole e soprattutto (per chi come me) con fotografie, una ricerca che può apparire non priva di contraddizioni, ad esempio per quel grande pensatore Siciliano che fu Leonardo Sciascia, per lui la Sicilia non può dirsi cristiana, che definiva le feste Siciliane, al massimo lo è solo in apparenza, in quelle esplosioni propriamente pagane, tollerate dalla Chiesa; Sciascia affronta l’argomento come saggio introduttivo nel libro “Feste religiose in Sicilia” (volume che si trova ancore sui mercatini dell’usato a prezzi sempre più alti), illustrato con fotografie di un giovane ed ancora sconosciuto Ferdinando Scianna (nella prima edizione sbagliarono anche il suo nome, sulla copertina si legge Fernando Scianna), libro che non mancò di sollevare qualche polemica proprio per la nota introduttiva del pensatore Siciliano, apparendo in aperta polemica con la sacralità di quella devozione popolare (tanto che il libro fu oggetto di una stroncatura da parte del quotidiano della Santa Sede, l’Osservatore Romano), Sciascia scrive “Che cos’ è una festa religiosa in Sicilia? Sarebbe facile rispondere che è tutto, tranne che una festa religiosa. E’, innanzi tutto, un’esplosione esistenziale; l’esplosione dell’es collettivo, dove la collettività esiste soltanto a livello dell’es. Poiché e soltanto nella festa che il siciliano esce dalla sua condizione di uomo solo, che è poi la condizione del suo vigile e doloroso super io, per ritrovarsi parte di un ceto, di una classe, di una città ”. Andando a ripercorrere il pensiero di Gesualdo Bufalino, scrittore e poeta Siciliano, si trovano indicazioni interessanti sul senso che i Siciliano danno a questi eventi popolari tradizionali, egli dice “durante la Pasqua ogni siciliano si sente non solo uno spettatore, ma un attore, prima dolente e poi esultante, per un Mistero che è la sua stessa esistenza. Il tempo dell’evento è quello della Primavera, la stagione della metamorfosi, così come metamorfica è la natura stessa del rito nel quale, come in un racconto dell’Opera dei Pupi, si combatte la lotta del Bene contro il Male. Sono presenti l’Inganno, il Dolore e il Trionfo, la Passione, la Morte e la Resurrezione di Cristo”.
In breve, la Pasqua in Sicilia è una ricorrenza profondamente sentita in tutta l’isola fin dall’antichità, essa ha sempre avuto come fulcro la commossa partecipazione del popolo, con rappresentazioni e processioni divenuti riti e tradizioni che caratterizzano inequivocabilmente numerosissimi centri Siciliani, che rievocano i momenti più salienti narrati nei Vangeli e che ricordano la Passione, la Morte e la Resurrezione di Gesù Cristo, con cortei formati dalle varie confraternite (a volte con rievocazioni teatrali) che hanno in se contenuti e simbologie spesso provenienti dalla dominazione Spagnola, avvenuta in Sicilia tra il XVI ed il XVII secolo.
Ritornando alla mia domanda, espressa all’inizio, ho avuto diversi suggerimenti da parte di amici e conoscenti, tra queste un mio amico infermiere, originario di Leonforte, Vincenzo, è riuscito a solleticare il mio interesse in particolar modo, da qui il racconto fotografico che presento, realizzato quest’anno, è quello della processione del Venerdì Santo di Leonforte.
La processione inizia in tarda mattinata, che procede dall’Oratorio fino alla Chiesa Madre,attraverso il piazzale Matrice, durante il breve tragitto vengono meditate le stazioni della Via Crucis; ad inziare la processione che avanza verso il Duomo (che rappresenterà il Golgota, perché è li dentro che avverrà la Crocifissione del Cristo) è una grande Croce, dietro procedono due lunghe file di consorelle e confrati, ci sono coloro che portano i cuscini con i chiodi, la corona di spine, ed il lenzuolo della deposizione con sopra una “Rosa Rossa”; poi troviamo il Cristo a volto scoperto sorretto da cinque confrati, segue la Vergine Addolorata, portata in spalla dall’omonima confraternita. A mezzogiorno, dentro la Chiesa Madre, giunti dinnanzi alla Croce, la statua con le braccia snodabili viene “crocifissa”. Quando sopraggiunge l’imbrunire tutto è pronto per la processione, che inizia dalla Chiesa Madre col rito della deposizione del Cristo giù dalla Croce, della quale se ne occupano i sacerdoti; la processione si snoda lungo un percorso stimato in poco più di 7 Km, interessando le 13 chiese di Leonforte (tredici quante sono le stazioni della Via Crucis), processione chiamata “’U Mulimentu”, termine che indica il sepolcro che custodì per tre giorni il corpo del Cristo prima della sua Resurrezione (La processione del “’U Mulimentu” è databile intorno al 1650). Questo percorso prevede anche l’accensione di un enorme falò posto sul piazzale antistante la “Gran Fonte di Leonforte” (costruita sui resti di una antica fontana araba), dalle cui 24 cannelle non esce acqua solo il giorno del Venerdì Santo, in segno di lutto per la morte del Cristo.
Colors have been an existential crisis lately.
Lately I've been on a film emulation kick, and it feels like everything I touch ends up all filmulated, and way too trendy. I'm wondering if there's a way to buck this.
This photograph is somewhere in the middle. While I definitely shot for something a little more vintage, but at the same time I wanted an extreme effect.
I've been realizing the thing I love the most is innovation. I really want to do everything in a new way, even colors.
I sometimes contract into an existential angst, deeply unsatisfied and troubled by my inability to figure once and for all the ultimate truth, what is my existence about.
I've looked everywhere for an answer to this constant nagging question to the true meaning of Life, every time I thought I've gotten it, it always slips away, leaving me discouraged and heartbroken.
Why is there this need to search? So many saints and sagas, smart intelligent people declare they have figured it all out, and convince others their truth. So far, I don't buy any of it, all I see are just fellow human beings living a human life. We all exist in this human form, stay for a while, then go away, a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Perhaps I'll never find the answer that quiets my monkey mind. But for some moments of my life, being in the beautiful nature, seems to make everything alright, no more struggling for an answer, just merge into peace and quietness, just for a little while.
Canadian Rockies, Banff National Park, Alberta, Canada
The waiter, far right, just stood, staring off into space, for several minutes, as if life had lost its meaning...
I tend to prefer good endings.
Without trials and challenges life would be boring.
Seeing people overcome trials and challenges is inspiring.
I try to avoid long existential melodramas that end in bleak sadness.
Not sure of the story here, but it doesn’t look good.
The abandoned, stripped down remains of a trailer in close vicinity of the abandoned building I showed in the last shot. This part of Salton Sea Beach doesn’t look happy.
There are what appear to be occupied homes a block away.
Can’t imagine what this area would be like in the Summer heat.
Without air conditioning and lots of fresh water one couldn’t survive.
Left click on the photo and/or the two way arrows in the upper right corner for a larger view.
Thank you, your views, favs and comments are greatly appreciated!
back in the mists of time.
Please : Right Click and select "Open link in new tab"
www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7f76Bkff2c
beat hotel - allan taylor
Paris nineteen fifty-six, number nine rue Git le Coeur
Word is out and everybody's beating on the door
Madame Rachou will let you in, just smile and ring the bell
Welcome to Nirvana at the Beat Hotel
The sweet smell of Pernod, a Gauloise cigarette
It's a cosmic congregation but you ain't seen nothing yet
It's an open invitation, an existential clientele
All looking for Nirvana at the Beat Hotel
They looked for it in New York City and San Francisco Bay
They looked for it in bebop jazz and it blew them all away
They tried out every avenue and then said "What the hell,
We'll look for it in Paris at the Beat Hotel"
Burroughs came up from Tangiers, Ginsberg from New York
Kerouac came up from Italy and slept out in the park
Gregory Corso came and went and where he's at no one can tell
He's still looking for Nirvana at the Beat Hotel
Take me to your leader, take me to the man
Someone has got the answer, someone's got the perfect plan
If you're looking in the alleys, if you're looking in the bars
You'll find us in the gutter, looking at the stars
This ragged band of poets, Christians, Buddhists, Jews
A new Beat generation searching for the Muse
Some found it in the arms of a mystic mademoiselle
Looking for Nirvana at the Beat Hotel
The rooms count up to forty-one, but you can sleep out in the hall
For a few centimes you can get a drink and write your poems on the wall
And the marijuana mixes with the Tukish toilet smell
It's all part of Nirvana at the Beat Hotel
Alex Campbell strums an old guitar someone picked up in Spain
Ginsberg's howling poetry and Kerouac's drunk again
The rent is overdue there must be something they can sell
Maybe they can sell Nirvana at the Beat Hotel
Someone's taking photographs, Janine takes off her clothes
Marlene's meditating and concentrating on her toes
Jasmine hides in room sixteen and curls up in her shell
She's communing with Nirvana at the Beat Hotel
Take me to your leader, take me to the man
Someone has got the answer, someone's got the perfect plan
If you're looking in the alleys, if you're looking in the bars
You'll find us in the gutter, looking at the stars
They did it for the journey and not for getting there
Fame is in a whisper when you pay the taxi fare
It's just this side of heaven and a long, long way from hell
It's somewhere in Nirvana at the Beat Hotel
Nothing lasts forever, and forever's in a rhyme
It's a Buddha-like connection and everybody has their time
If you want to drink the water you've got to dig into the well
And maybe then you'll find Nirvana at the Beat Hotel
It was over by nineteen sixty-three and everyone had gone
But they'd opened up the road and the revolution was getting won
And when the poems were painted over and they rang the final bell
It was goodbye to Nirvana at the Beat Hotel
The myth is stronger than the truth, and the truth can sometimes lie
To see it all for what it was you need an uncorrupted eye
Was the journey worth it, only time will tell
Still looking for Nirvana, at the Beat Hotel
Take me to your leader, take me to the man
Someone has got the answer, someone's got the perfect plan
If you're looking in the alleys, if you're looking in the bars
You'll find us in the gutter, looking at the stars
Looking at the stars
We're looking at the stars
" I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, [...] whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me..." -- Sir Isaac Newton
I close my eyes and see
a seagull in the desert,
high, against unbearably blue sky.
There is hope in the past.
I am writing to you
all the time, I am writing
with both hands,
day and night.
— Franz Wright, “P.S.,” Walking to Martha’s Vineyard
When you tend towards sleep
and sound with clogs and singing
and I'm lingering bewildered at your crossroads
you kindle for me in the dark of a square
a light of calm, a window pane
— Vittorio Sereni
What am I?
(May or may not be related to my existential crisis! Really.)
Shot with a Sony 90mm macro lens (at f/2.8) on Sony a7r iii. A tripod held the camera gear for this long (0.125 seconds) exposure made with natural light available.
Colors/tones adjusted in Lightroom, then cropped and saved as JPG file in Photoshop.
Best viewed in lightbox
The Danish artist Michael Kvium is known for the figurative visual language he uses to tackle the existential themes of humanity. In the exhibition ‘Circus Europa’, Kvium takes the circus as a metaphor for our time to portray a world of entertainment where even the most serious news is characterized by sensationalism and drama.
explore 6 may 2008
so here's the thing. our old internet router broke. the new router doesn't work with the old computer (holding all my pics), so if i want to upload, i have to drag everything onto a memory stick, and transfer it over...blah, blah, blah... so i begin questioning the VALUE of the pictures... and quickly pirouette into existential angst about THE MEANING of it all. then i get my holga film developed, and i'm liking the randomness and mechanics of film again. SO i've just bought a new lens for my old, manual nikon... and am about to take a deep breath and explore what may happen. anyone else hit the photographic wall...?!
Feel free to interpret the photo [what does it mean?] in comments left below. Or feel free not to. Whatever you do, remember that you will be defining your essence by the way in which you respond. If you ignore the issue while being aware of it, you will enter a state of bad faith.* It's all up to you.
*in a state of bad faith one denies one's own consciousness or awareness in the face of changing reality
L'existentialiste ne croit pas à la puissance de la passion. Il ne pensera jamais qu'une belle passion est un torrent dévastateur qui conduit fatalement l'homme à certains actes, et qui, par conséquent, est une excuse. Il pense que l'homme est responsable de sa passion. L'existentialiste ne pensera pas non plus que l'homme peut trouver un secours dans un signe donné, sur terre, qui l'orientera ; car il pense que l'homme déchiffre lui-même le signe comme il lui plaît. Il pense donc que l'homme, sans aucun appui et sans aucun secours, est condamné à chaque instant à inventer l'homme.
Jean-Paul Sartre, L'Existentialisme est un humanisme
“Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints
on the sand of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.”
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Two days ago, I did something that five years ago I never would have dreamed, or conceived of, and ran an ultramarathon in the Chuckanut mountains of Bellingham. Thirty-one miles (on my 31st birthday!) and 5,000ft of elevation gain later my quads are shredded but my spirit feels alive. It was both terrible and wonderful, full of pain and elation, sadness and hope. I dug deep at times to find the will to keep moving, which is exactly the challenge I wanted, no matter how much my body fought otherwise in the moment. I did what seemed impossible to me, especially with multiple set backs that postponed training, and finished alive and well, smiling wide, happy to have finished and be finished.
Five years ago this month I started running, with the goal to run a mile without stopping. I had never really run at that point. I developed a love for it, over time, and completed a marathon, but I didn't find a passion until I discovered trail running, while on vacation on the Oregon coast. There had been a trail race, a 30k and 50k, the weekend before and the course looked stunning. The next year I decided to sign up for the 30k, not really knowing what I was getting into. By the end of it, I was beat, and questioning if I would ever do something like that again...but I found it has a way of seeping into your bones and subconscious. Despite the suffering, you ultimately want more trails, more beauty, more challenge...
Some will and do call me crazy, and maybe I am (probably!). But what I've learned is that truly challenging yourself is one of the best ways to feel alive, connecting and engaging to something much deeper inside, as you peer into the unknown. And in the end, you find yourself back amongst family and friends, cheering on your little existential journey, welcoming you back to a life where high-fives, hugs, and a chair are the best things in the world.
This photo was taken on the Amanda Trail in Yachats, Oregon, part of the course on my first trail race.
A description of existentialism I found was "concerned with the nature of human existence as determined by the individual's freely made choices."
First of all, the desire to dress en femme, to present myself as a woman, is engrained in me. I did not choose for that desire to exist.
Where I do freely make a choice is to actually do something about that desire, especially going out-and-about. In a sense I am baring my soul every time people see me.
And I am happier for it!
I tried, a new step forward, but I guess it isn't the right time, or maybe the step is just too big.
I felt lost. Existential doubts. It took a while to get myself back on track again. Still not there.
So I took this, just to do something, it's not good enough, but I needed to let you know I think of you flickr friends and I miss you.
I need a project, but my head is empty, no pictures, no ideas, no concepts. I guess two projects (365&52) took a lot of my inspiration. Please get back quick.
It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell.
- Buddha
Soundtrack : www.youtube.com/watch?v=1a76FeV2-Dw
SHE TALKS TO ANGELS by BLACK CROWES
FALLEN ANGELS ARE FOREVER YOUNG, BUT MORTALS RETURN TO EARTH
A short work of fiction telling the story of a fallen angel who fell in love with a mortal ... They lived a Bohemian existence and roamed the world together like romantic gypsies, but mortals grow old, but not always and fallen angels may or may not return to heaven … This is their ambiguous story … I am just the story teller. The interpretation is for you to decide … ; 0))
He told me he was just a simple man,
ever since the rib of Eve when life began
I found him as he wrote his Book of Ancient lore
and he caught me as I tumbled to the wine-stained floor
In retrospect, it still looks like that's all there was
A simple uncluttered, unfettered life, a rebel writer without a clause
on the outside Bohemian existence; on the inside existentially rife
I was his girl and together we lived a single life
by that I mean as one; not in any sense apart
the unspoken knowledge lived quietly
hidden deeply within our hearts
we moved from town to town on the outskirts of other human lives
avoided the lies of smallville shame-hooded scorn-filled eyes
We hitched the Dartmoor pony to the single wooden trap
I hitched my skirts and petticoats up so as to avoid the wrap
of shackles that would keep me earthward bound
and heckles that would rise from less than solid ground
shackled every long dark Winter's night to him
his heckles rose with each newly anticipated breaking dawn
so why did it take me so long to realise
the disconnection from my seemingly contented gypsy life
was it something I couldn't even fathom it ran so deep
as the deepest ocean bed, even though I was his wife
in every sense except in law but then
we never followed that straight and narrow line
the confines of suburban self-made men
never bothered us or crossed our minds
he called me his little angel; I called him my prince of men
he said I talked to angels so I must have been like one of them
I thought he talked to crows; he had them in his power
he taught them tricks and they obeyed;
but he could never teach me the hours
he said I was far beyond the ways of men
that time had somehow left me alone
escaped it's notice, freed my bones
so wings could grow and I could fly
that's why he tied me to the night
by day there was nothing he could do but cry
he kept to the shadows as that was his due
the sun would raise him down if he stepped into view
he knew I knew what he was all about
no longer simple swings and roundabouts
he knew that it was only now a small matter of time
before I flew out of sight and was gone far from him and away
it just so happened one bright and glorious sun-drenched day
the shackles rusted right through in the storm-sodden night
and his heckles began to rise
but dissipated with the morning dew
the light burned out in his dark and solemn eyes
and he could see where I was at
and I could see that he was resigned
I guess he knew this day would come
as he stepped into the blistering sun that rendered him now blind
I tried to stop him, told him not to follow me
but he insisted there was nothing left for him now to be
as he freed himself from the shadows where he had clung so long
and crumbled slowly into the dust from whence he came
I shed a tear for what might have been
but I had to follow my destiny and leave him to his fate
I flew up into the blue abyss on newly formed wings as white as mist
but always safe within my heart,
the memory of another life and love exist
- AP - Copyright remains with the author
'copyright image please do not reproduce without permission'
My other half is a doctor, which means the effects and consequences of his work are tangible. It's a bad day when someone in his charge dies; it's a better day when, given limited time and resources, he's able to give his patients something approaching decent care. This palpability, this definiteness, was among the factors which led me to have a mini existential crisis about the value of my own career and work to the wider world.
I've written before that the educational choices I've made in my life were driven by the literally selfish desire to understand who I am and what it means to be me. This led me to interests and studies in psychology, philosophy and - the subject of my degree - literature. I discovered that I learned much more about myself by reading stories about other people. These choices disappointed my teachers in mathematics and the sciences, and my career in photography has surprised old schoolmates who assumed I would become a lawyer or else justify their designation of me as 'most likely to be elected to parliament.'
When I was around eleven I saw Dead Poets Society, and was so moved by a monologue delivered by Robin Williams' character that it imprinted on me a love and appreciation for the value of art. "We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering: these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love: these are what we stay alive for."
It's easy to forget art's value, difficult to feel it day to day, even for - perhaps especially for - those who work in the arts. The first moment of doubt that I remember with any vividness was in a literature tutorial at university when, as we sat round a table discussing a novel by C.S. Lewis, the thought struck me: "What are we doing? Why the fuck are we sitting here talking about a children's book like this!?" And although I consider some small parts of my studies to have been pseudo-intellectual nonsense, I knew on a deeper level that what we were doing was important.
I don't even consider my work to be 'art': it certainly doesn't set out to challenge anyone or anything, or even to convey any deep meaning or message. Like this little essay, it's self-indulgent. I photograph the things that move me, surprise me and interest me, and if that can make someone think or discover something new - or even if they just enjoy looking at it - then that makes me happy. I'm encouraged by the occasional emails I receive from people I don't know which tell me of how my work has inspired their own, or of how it has made them realise the beauty of a city they've lived in for years; or, very occasionally - and most surprising and even frightening of all - of how it has affected the decisions they've made about their own lives.
And this is what art is for: to teach us how to be human beings, to teach us how to be here. In Other Colours, Orhan Pamuk writes about the importance of reading novels, but his words can be applied to other arts: "Reading was central to my efforts to make something of myself, elevate my consciousness, and thereby give shape to my soul. What sort of man should I be? What was the meaning of the world?…With the knowledge I gathered from my reading, I would chart my path to adulthood."
Glasgow, 2012.
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Two nights ago I was pulling an all-nighter at the student halls of residence. Well, I am a night owl but this has been getting extreme of late. It was in the wee hours of the morning when I noticed myself staring at a Word document in the glass reflection and had a moment of thesis-writing-induced existential crisis...
... and stared blankly at the warm lighting from the pavement outside that was beckoning vs. the cold fluorescent lighting in the study room that seemed to hint that I was overstaying my welcome...
... and took a selfie with my phone.
These violent melodies we create
where we lie asleep we're dreaming
taken by this existential existance. a predetermined fate which captures our imagination, when imagination is all we have.
can you picture the moment;
you're blissfully alone. friends surround you, but they're elsewhere, and you're free. every slight shift of your weight creates a rustle amongst the leaves beneath you. your toes are dipped in water, as you lie by the lakeside. occasionally you swirl your feet just to watch the ripples. it's a hot night. your entire body is just warm; the last dregs of sunlight have soaked your bones, as they light the sky in an almost crimson hue, but they're gone now. it isn't dark, to your eyes at least. yet the stars are already out. maybe you know the constellations. maybe you don't. but you lie there and watch them anyway, as they shift and glitter, some lost a thousand years in history, yet still lighting our sky.
what are you thinking of? are you deliberating existance; how they formed, why you're here? are you debating your mindset; pondering your happiness, allowing yourself to enjoy the moment? are you considering the nature of chocolate moose? or just moose? or the nature of such a word, where the expected plural is entirely wrong - you're most certainly not deliberating 'meece', yet that's what you'd anticipate it to be.
are you thinking?
this is for you. this is for the dreamers. this is for all of those creative souls; the ones that consider. we quantify our emotions. we strive for perfection but meet imperfection like an old friend, because we aren't afraid to be wrong. we long to be remembered; our failures in print while our masterpieces lie unwritten, uncreated, still the very seeds of an idea. we allow others in to share our world, but they never quite understand. we sleep amidst a sea of nightmares and creation, and we aren't afraid to be afraid. we've run through so many nights with adrenaline pounding our veins and all those fields, all those trees we've climbed, and all those times we feel like we've lived
already. because we know that there's so much more ahead.
but the nature of our nature means we're damned by this existential existance. will we always be searching for what else is out there, unable to settle to anything that could resemble a reality? will we spend too long wondering what happiness is and forget to just allow ourselves to get lost in the emotion? will we question our relationships with others, and query ulterior motives to the extent that we distance ourselves from the ones we'd like to let closest?
will we ever know who we are? does it really matter?
A stairway lit like an exit, but leading only to silence. No destination, no arrival, just the illusion of ascent. Cold concrete, empty light, and a promise unkept.
The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it is not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of the other person—without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other. - Osho