Writing and photography are as important to me as the actual physical art I create. I take photographs everywhere I go, looking for great images that I may be able to use in my art, and to remember things too. I keep a random journal, sometimes art, sometimes writing complaints or fears, sometimes exploring, with pictures and sketches and words and marks. At times I discipline myself to write regularly, other times I write randomly.  Poems and stories appear in my head, clamoring to be written down, even if it’s the middle of the night and I have to get out of bed and find pen and paper and then trip over one of the cats. In dreams I see places I’ve never been, people I’ve never met, but I know them…

we went hiking a few days ago on the Hudson River bike path, and I saw some very twisted vines...


sometimes
i wonder why i bother
taking pictures.
i know that the ocean exists, although i’m not there,
but the waves change so often
that the pictures can’t keep the ocean real.
the child grows, but changes so often
that the pictures can’t keep him safe.
the number of leaves on the tree varies,
the wind frees them so that the branches can, finally, be seen.
the pictures, somewhere under the emulsion, have branches, too.
when i look through the camera’s viewfinder, am i actually seeing what is?
or am i only thinking that i can see?
i’ve never found anyone who can see the same patterns i do…