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So, I have all these photographs on flickr . I put them there so I know where they are , smiles. I can go to flickr and find a huge portion of my art. I love taking nature scenes, animals, and candid shots. The last thing that I want to take is a posed shot, well, unless it’s my kids or grandkids.. 🙂 ..then posing is okay.
I love taking pictures of ‘parts of people’ , like below, there’s my grandson’s hand holding this “COOL” bracelet. It’s a personal picture, yet it’s ‘safe’ for posting since it doesn’t really have any facial identification in the picture. Another ‘personal’ but safe for posting picture is the shadow – puddle- sneakers picture below. It’s one of my self-portraits during the period of time when I was ‘hiding’ from a bully. At the time and place that I took the picture, the bully wasn’t present at all. I was in one of the safe spaces, far away from the bully. I looked down at my feet, and I saw a puddle of water, so I decided that’s a great place to start for a photograph, perhaps a bit of photojournalism, telling the story of part of my journey through life.
The picture at the bottom where there is a white blob filled with buttons is a picture of one of my paintings. Actually, that’s only part of the painting shown. I sprayed a painted a canvas black to create a do-over painting. Then I placed the last remaining items that came from my father’s apartment, an old lottery ticket, a doorstop, some other items and a pair of his old eyeglasses. Then I sprayed gold paint all around them. Truth is that the huge white blob in the middle of the painting is when I accidentally spilled the paint . And I decided, that instead of cleaning up the picture, I’d just leave the white blob there as part of my photojournalism story. I pressed some of my grandmother’s buttons into the blob of white paint.
Now, to you and to the average observer, that painting might just look like some huge mistakes and blobs of paint, but to me, the painting is a physical reminder of parts of my father’s life and leaving. It is a physical reminder of the day that I left my father’s apartment for the last time. I picked up the painting after it dried; I walked out and closed the door .. . I have closed the door to the apartment but not to the memories.
He was the ‘super-duper’ , one of my favorite fathers . (Yes, I have more than one. I had a step-father that was a really cool guy. And then there’s my favorite Father, Jesus Christ).
Months before he died, he said, “I love you”, and I turned around and told him, “Ditto”.
Now, some might think that response is weird, at the least, very different. But my father and I both knew and understood what that meant. And it meant a whole lot…so much more than that little word. All in a good way, of course. Ditto..