When I posted today's reading over on She Had Always Wanted Words, I wrote about how I have been in a bit of a creative deadzone lately. It happens every so often. Life just takes over and I find myself filling my time with laundry and grocery shopping and phone calls to the government - not to mention my thesis work and some social activities - and suddenly I just don't have the energy for creativity. It's not a lack of desire. It's more like a physical paralysis. I will sit and think, "I have some time. I should do something creative. Like write. Or paint. Or play piano." But it is as if the message doesn't translate from my brain to my limbs. Or maybe it gets lost, distracted by something shiny along the way. Who knows.
Anyway, the point of this post is not the deadzone itself, but getting out of it. It's been a slow process this time around. An afternoon walking on the beach and hiking in the woods which made me wish I had my camera in hand started it off. Then listening to a lot of Vinyl Cafe podcasts while wrapped in my favourite blankets and drinking peppermint tea. And finally discovering, thanks to said podcasts, the work of Michael Flomen. Stuart tells the story of visiting Michael Flomen's farm and seeing him work. He explains that he was introduced to Michael by a mutual friend who, when recommending Stuart go visit Michael explained, "He takes pictures without a camera...of things we cannot see." And, as Stuart says, "who can pass up something like that?" I certainly couldn't, and subsequently spent a blissful hour exploring some of his astounding images while listening to Katie Melua. And that was it. That was what finally jolted my creative muscles out of their paralysis. It feels good to be back.
from What the Light Teaches
Anne Michaels
4
Sometimes I was afraid to touch him,
afraid my hand would go right through him.
But he was alive, in a history
made more painful by love.
I prayed to the sky to lift our father's head,
to deliver him from memory.
I wished he could lie down
in music he knew intimately, and become
sound, his brain flooded by melody so powerful
it would stretch molecules, dismantle thought.
I went on a photo excursion today. I didn't really have time, but the weather was gorgeous and the sun was beckoning me to come out to play with my camera. So I obeyed it. It was the kind of light that begs to be photographed. The kind with weight. The kind with soul. The kind that has something to say. I'm a bit obsessed with light, and I realize that I might sound crazy, but I'm okay with that. If photography has taught me one thing it is that sometimes I have to get over myself and just sound or look crazy (I had more than one bemused look today from other people out enjoy the weather). As I was walking the title from this poem kept popping into my head. This is possibly my favourite section from this long poem. I know it's not about light, but I don't think that's the point. When you get this kind of light it has something to tell you about more than just itself.
More from What the Light Teaches.
