- The Cure
Late one Saturday night in November of 2007, my manager brought back a dozen roses that had begun to wither and tossed them in the already overflowing trash cans. The customers had passed over them and they had begun to die. Roses, by nature, have always been one of the most picture-perfect subjects. Their symbolism abounds with love, beauty, purity, and frailty. Something inside me caused me to pick out four of these wilted throwaways and carry them out of the store and into the night.
At one in the morning...the time of night when the world moves slower and thoughts flow easier, I put the blacklight behind those flowers. Their silouettes created something that was moving that I couldn't quite understand. And rarely will I understand how an image moves me until I look back at the moment and see how much of my thoughts and feelings are reflected and are now held there forever. It was a fleeting rare moment (here in my basement at one a.m. of all times) that the image truely and to the deepest level becomes a reflection. I once had an English teacher years ago that writers create some of their best work in moments of extreme excstasy or in moments deepest despair. That was what happens the moment you allow your entire self to come through. And I am thankful of those moments.
The first is titled "PostLustPop" and the second is titled "That's Love, Not Lust..."
No comments:
Post a Comment