Surface Tension
I wake up in the morning and feel warm blankets over me. I look up at the ceiling of my bedroom and notice a few rays of gray light have come through the window and a few cracks I have never noticed. An hour later I’m outside walking and the concrete makes a slapping sound under my sneakers. A puddle from last night’s rain shows ripples from a light wind blowing. I look at a tree and raise my camera to capture the patterns of light on the surface of some leaves. The leaves move side-to-side with the breeze, blurring the photo. Tires screech on the street, coming to an abrupt stop at a red light, the car needs a bath after a storm.
Living in a city in America I photograph mostly things and occasionally a stranger. I wonder about the surface of things. Who lives in that building, behind those walls, glass reflecting outward like eyes. I realize I am interested in taking photos that show the scratches of time, the half-buried bike wheel in a bush, and those places that are in focus at times, and blurry the next moment. Back at home, a vase of water holds decaying flower petals, floating on top, lighter than liquid. It occurs to me that what I can see is just what reflected light shows me. If I were a different species or from another planet what I’d see with a different set of eyes could look very different. A sunset might leave no impression at all. Yet with my camera I try to find something that attracts me from what lies on the surface. What if beauty really is just skin deep?
