New York.
Marching into Cities:
The history my eyes remember:
How could I possibly imagine the incalculable migrating Monarchs flirting with the heavens infinite cosmos: Their wings flutter like voices possibly passionately heard: Those sounds may influence a millennium of captures:
I am a photographer surrounded by the beckoning of many voices: The voices have influenced my photography: My photography is influenced by the voices that echo through my cities: My eyes temper the unmelodic melodies of all cities: My eyes capture the most pristine and unwieldy of dangers that are the nature of cities.
I am here to remember:
I remember I was supposed to ride horse back through the Sierra Nevada:
I remember I was supposed to stretch my legs along the Swiss alps foothills:
I remember I was supposed to walk among Russians in forests dotted with dachas:
I remember I had been asked to raft across the jungles of the Amazon:
So many dreams live in nature’s adventures still outstanding: My life at times is thrillingly alive in those bygone dreams.
Riga, Latvia.
Sometimes I run around like an injured or fledgling rehabbed bird trying to rediscover formative balance: I try my wings: I begin to fly: I fly to focus on the definition of beauty in a complicated dream: The capture is front and center: My eyes aflame I posture: Am I ready.
Heroes of sorts, come to my rescue: The voices of others celebrate alongside my aims: They appeal to most moments: I am standing alone with Miles Davis’s “My Funny Valentine?: Maybe: I am remembering Oscar Niemeyer’s Brasilia collective of built brilliance: Maybe: I am Man Ray’s blind ambition: His photography; the embodiment of visual wilderness: My mind is rekindled::Maybe: My mind imagines like Giacometti: I see thin giants of magical proportions: Maybe: Do I dream as Akira Kurosawa’s “Dreams”: Are my eyes invited into his heart: Maybe his eyes are invited into my heart: Maybe:
Tokyo.
How many thousands of heroes invite me into their world to make a single capture: Is this when the fledgling photographer finds strength to fly: How do I look: How does the capture become: What does Lewis Carrol’s Alice think.
Thousands and millions forged ahead thinking their ideas are theirs alone: Influences are circling in nano seconds above: listen:
My mind languishes above and through the city: I am only in Berlin, London, Paris, Rio, Barcelona, Moscow… for a single built capture: I march alone with an army: Why not open my arms and capture all of Rome, Hong Kong, New York and thousands more:
I navigate through not merely to make it all mine: I have a simple request for my camera: Make a memory of where I have been: I want to feel as if I am not merely capturing but communing with photography’s architecture, the architecture in photography:
The lingering madness that appeals most present in my mind’s eyes may be the heart of Calvino’s Invisible Cities: The truth from what you remember is revisited in various stages of blurred and sharpened focal points: The memory of your memories is home to various degrees of accuracy:
Architecture illuminates cities: Cities illuminate architecture: What I see and may not see is crucial: How I see where I have been is the definition of my captures.
I am alive to make something beautiful to make something beautiful: I need to elevate the beauty of the mood: I grab hold of something finite: I examine the facets a bit closer: I find a way to break through atoms: I stare into the eye of a hurricane: I am inundated by something extraordinary: I breathe: I make a capture: I am allowed to dream.
Coming into Los Angeles.