When Art Is Defined By

The Job Of The Photographer, In My View, Is Not To Catalogue Indisputable Fact But To Try To Be Coherent About Intuition And Hope. This Is Not To Say That He Is Unconcerned With The Truth.

The Suburban West Is, From A Moral Perspective, Depressing Evidence That We Have Misused Our Freedom. There Is, However, Another Aspect To The Landscape, An Unexpected Glory. Over The Cheap Tracts And Littered Arroyos One Sometimes See A Light As Clean As That Recorded By O'sullivan. Since It Owes Nothing To Our Care, It Is An Assurance; Beauty Is Final.

Are There Grounds Now And Then For An Unironic Smile?

How Can We Hope, After All, To See A Tree Or Rock Or Clear North Sky If We Do Not Adopt A Little Of Their Mode Of Life, A Little Of Their Time? If The Time It Takes To Cross Space Is A Way By Which We Define It, Then To Arrive At A View Of Space “in No Time” Is To Have Denied Its Reality

Let Go Of The Thoughts, Let Go Of The Mind, Let Go Of Everything. Let Go! Drop It! Drop Everything. Hold Onto Nothing.