Every image maker has a persona. wrote the text maker, clambering into the barrel of my camera's lens, crawling through the half-cocked diaphragm (set to f3.5 for the narrowest depth of field), then leaping, ever nimble, from from mirror to mirror and diving out through the viewfinder, right through astigmatism-correcting plastic, twice-scratched cornea, aqueous humor, lens, vitreous humor until, finally, he lies panting, tangled in the remarkably weed-like wefts of my retina.
I must find the text-maker's weed persona, I thought, sitting down, opening another light-box, poring over image after image.
What shall it be ? Something from summer, late summer, something ripening, open and still opening, something straddling birth and death, at home in both. Something dark, but surrounded by light like a word on a page; something elegant, eloquent. Complicated. Astonishing. Prickly.
Yes.
Perfect.
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