At the time of this writing, I was 48 years old. I had then been keeping a journal continuously since I was 18 years old. Thats 30 years of self-documenting. By now I figure if I dont have some aspect of myself down, I have wasted a lot of time and resourses. I have not. And while at times I have traded my writing for discoveries made in life: while shooting, while drinking a beer or smoking a joint, or sitting staring. I am constantly though ever presently escaping the shawdow of what W.E.B DUBOIS called "DOUBLE CONSIOUSNESS". Nonetheless, I sometimes wonder if this great divide, this grand canyon of deceit that separates me from harmony and peace with others will ever close. My greatest fear is it will not. By now others who read my writing must be able to ascertain that I am not bitter, nor am I so far gone that I toss racial insults from behind a wall of racial inferiority/ vitimization. I am in the open where me and my camera endure the onslaught of indifference. As a writer I sometimes imagine an audience sometimes I try to forget that I know not why I write. But I never forget why I started.. I wanted to improve my writing. Along the way I got caught up in the reflexology of the act itself. The act has within the doing of it its own world. The world of ideas streaming out onto paper. From head to pen to paper. Often, (like now) I go back and forth...back and forth.
As a photographer, I am a director without a budget. As a writer am creating the cheapest stories possible: No pen no paper no editor. Just me and my screen and these keys. The internet is the newest tool. And whereas it has changedthe mechanics of my marks; making then immediately available to others, it too will age and most likely follow my course. The ghost of my work will haunt my absence rather than serve my audience. Most of my audience is not yet born. If they are, they are not yet intuned into my images and my words. We artsts are like wild horses. Our own stampedes collide. And while the echos of our hoffs bounce back, I recoil and scream at a deafing level all silently within me. As a minority, Insults and pleas circle within and without. Images are often too personal too sort. Yet I try to get them read by a mass of others. Rising to my own internal applaudes not always confident that they ( my external audience) wants me to continue. One thing is for sure, success is not won easily, some conditions of my life will not let me stand on the same side of that canyon of the masters who came before me. Occasionally my shadow falls over there. llusions cause me to believe that I am coming..that my work matters....so I continue.
The beaten ground absorbs the blod sweat and tears of millions: artists like me. Its slippery in crowded places. I sometimes fall. Yet I am forever armed with the tools. I get up and I click my shutter..jot a line. I click and press rewind. I purchase blank books and sketchpads. I doodle lines after lines after line and I double expose. I do all this in hopes that someday that allusive audience is waiting...and wanting to cheer me on. I scramble to rise, look up from what I am doing and they are not there.. My imagination sets upon me. I wipe whatever imaginary clod of dirt they have caused to fall into my eyes away. Then these internal fears are gone. I go on.Today is but another day. The contests may be closed. Someones else won the race. I get the rejection slip or the ribbon for no place. I move on. And yet as is evident in writing this, I am living truthfully in imaginary circumstances.