Warning: Half a buttload of photos follows.
I’ve spent a substantial amount of time bemoaning my (lack of?) artistry to my patient wife. It’s not that I’m needy, but rather that I’m not sure one can see the art in one’s own artwork easily. Maybe it takes training to know what art is before you can consistently spot it.
Two years ago I’d have said no to that suggestion, but after being with Maria, I’ve come to change my position. I’d say the art in my work has improved, a bit, to where it was when I was 16, fresh with a camera and with my nose in every photography book printed. I saw what good art looked like and tried to find it down in the boonies where I lived. Occasionally, I was lucky and spotted some.
Then I got older and more practical. Without having a basis of what art is, from an educational context, it was easy to switch to being a “documentarian.” But maybe M is right, and that’s just a cover for the real me. Maybe I’m an antidissestablishmentdocumentarian.
Maybe I’m not an artist; I just crush a lot.