Seven Days of the Black and White
I’ve been thinking lately of the idea that when, in the whole scope of human experience, an artist chooses to train focus on a slice of that experience, it confers an importance, something worthy of notice. Sure, Photography 101; but as I took part in the Facebook meme that’s making the rounds – taking a black and white photo from everyday life for seven days – it brings me back to this foundational idea of art. And when you think of the most primitive roots of art, a hand on the cave wall, here I am…
Cuevo de los Manos, Argentina, 2011
This meme is not so very far from these two ideas: Here I am. Here is a piece of my everyday life, worthy of notice.
Well the challenge got me thinking. And it was fun. I would love to see everyone sharing this stripped down slice of their everyday life like a massive egalitarian group show. So here’s my week of black and white and, since so much of my work involves poetry as well, I made myself write a bit of poetry each day too…
Day 1
Hey apex predator,
(perambulator)
When I get bored I think
too much about words
(whittle)
But I pay attention when whistled at
Whistles and words and kisses are holy
(holy)
And I’ll pony up
waiting for you to train wreck…
Day 2
Stolen from the blackbirds
not the whistle, that’s my choice
Like the full afternoon’s noise, a gouge.
I’ve bitten into something sweet
leaving emptiness there; there.
I’m good with the emptiness,
it’s more than question marks,
less than damage,
a C-chord in summer, your laughter
as we lay together on the lawn
your head on my lap
I think of fat plums, bee pollen…
Day 3
And a black dog waits
At the side of the road
It’s important that he is alive
At least his tail is wagging
While I sit alone in the car
Trying to not run off the road
Looking at the trees
Like they are objects of desire
The ground here used to be
Covered with frost
Now it is golden grass
Uneven and untidy…
Day 4
See what the harvest will get you,
the sun as a morning ghost
getting in my eyes in the war,
in the hair in the smoke today
in the road I met a fellow soldier who
made the word ‘cunt’ in a good way;
sometimes people surprise me…
Day 5
The beet comes out of the ground;
you rub your whole thumb across its surface
Not harshly
not gingerly.
Your fingers make a pragmatic caress,
unhurried
a basic sort of gesture
to kindly wipe away the soil
weighing ripeness or rot.
And the root is not made clean,
nor is it dirty;
but somehow right
like you would do to any body
like holding a knife
or smoothing down fur
putting things right,
as they should be in
a well-ordered universe.
These are the hands I like to watch.
Day 6
Crickets sing low for us, breathe for us
we have learnt the meaning of hush,
become intrusive, a lady among the gypsies,
a tourist, naked enough, but out of place;
sounds in the distance magnify, debase
sound carries herself differently,
a housewife pretending to be a whore
rolls her hips like smooth waves to deceive, to blur
what might be laughter, maybe cruel
maybe coyote, maybe murder go fishing
puncture and recede again to shadow
full moon light, true midnight;
the flowers that smelled so tame and sweet at dusk,
now in on the joke, making wild plans…
Day 7
where no pilgrim ever goes,
to the cool tomb black dirt heart,
there is a green shoot growing
to break the hard carved stone,
even here…