An austerity of angles sprouting from wild grasses

wild grasses in Fire Island

A beach house in the Pines

Along windswept edges of town
amid stern midcentury angles,
a bright unsunny light filters and glances;
limns the geometric emptinesses between things
on a weekend in shoulder season
on a slip of land off the coast of Long Island.

The color of the wood sea-silvered— salt boxes
beheaded, re-envisioned by exacting minds,
rise out of a low wild landscape to divide,
bisect, and generally make sensible for city dwellers
the unfathomed abundance of sky above the breakers.

No quaint adornments, no flower boxes, finials,
no lacy curtains dance on ocean breezes, flutter out open windows.
Floating panes refract the vast surround until at dusk velvet dark
the reflected scrims inverse— reveal interior scenes of we-scale dramas;
unveil views on strict styled stages beneath linear precise prosceniums.

In the deeper hours, silhouettes of deer move among the low pines
grazing, and foxes chase along the sanded strand beneath a
dull-bright moon, unfettered by the intrusion of angles in the
wild grasses, unheeding of stories not their own.

A Fire Island Pines beach houseFire Island Pines houseA Fire Island Pines beach house

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Deeds and misdeeds

He was long ago sealed into to the wall— made part of the wall— with a spell. All the years since, visitors and passersby have presumed he’s just another sculptural embellishment of the palazzo. His consciousness remains, though— eyes, frozen, he still sees; his ears still hear. 

Being a mute and immovable witness is a torture for obvious reasons, yet his tenure has shown him the full breadth of human existence in miniature— from the most touching moments of affection between two people, to vivid misdeeds perpetrated against one another. 

He’s bone weary. Part of him wishes for an end to this helpless consciousness, but he remains ever alert for the next tender moment. It’s his undying hope that the tally of deeds v. misdeeds will always remain well out of balance.

Spaces

Photo of old book pages

In the ellipses between
drops of rain
In the space between pale night’s end
and grey morning

I find you.
I find forgotten things.

Between lines of writing
in the pages of books
yellowing in drawers
and on shelves,
In the leathery slips
between their bindings—

And in the spaces
between the notes of songs
not yet written.
In the dry crack
precipitating the death
of an incandescent bulb,
that moment the knob twists
(an old brass lamp)

I hear whisperings,
stories long forgotten
and faded—
or things confused
with memories or dreams,

hauntings.

I find everything, and
nothing.

In the spaces between
things, now, I find
space.

Seeing things in similar ways, in black and white

photographs by Elizabeth Daggar
Cathedrals without ceilings
photographs by Elizabeth Daggar
Ornamental
photographs by Elizabeth Daggar
As above, so below
photographs by Elizabeth Daggar
Words on architecture

The conversations among windows that happen in the fading light

photo colorization of windows by Elizabeth Daggar
“Rhythms”

I had a little meander through the fourth and third avenue corridors of lower Gowanus last evening as the light struck things at angles. I added some strategic color to these images; some storytelling.

Shooting in color with a phone at that hour is dodgy at best, yet shot in black and white they lose a little something or maybe just feel so different to how it looked in person. These contrivances, then, to inject some of what was lost (or was never there).

photo colorization of windows by Elizabeth Daggar
“Communications”
photo colorization of windows by Elizabeth Daggar
“A nostalgic accord”
photo colorizations of windows in Gowanus by Elizabeth Daggar
“Morse Code”

Scenes from a nearby barrier island


Here are some photographs from my brief but lovely stay in Cherry Grove, Fire Island last week. A soothing balm, and the friends I stayed with had a little oasis of a cottage on the bayside. It was so serene and lovely that I didn’t even go off on a wander to photograph more of the town this time— and that’s rare for me.

More photos after the jump.

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From a stroll on an overcast day in early spring

Here are some images from a few months ago that I came across recently. Serene, the bright kind of overcast with a fine mist or drizzle. It’s a lovely thing to wander through neighborhoods I’ve wandered so many times before and see something in a way I never noticed before; or, literally, in new light.

I’ve still been drawing more than writing these days, though it’s not for lack of words. Things are percolating; they’re not ready yet. Day to day concerns and occupations monopolize, and everything less greedy or immediate must wait below decks. Cargo all but forgotten until the bills of lading come out and the crates are hauled up into daylight.
Some of what’s below the surface traces back to winter and early spring. The day I shot these was a fine one, but there was so much going through my head and I wanted none of it, was sick of it, so I gave over control to the senses, and found new details in things I’d walked past and even photographed many times before.

I think I’ve not been walking enough lately. Long wanders always help— to quiet the mind; to solve or to resolve, if only for a little while.