This is a picture of me. They all are. I can’t make a picture, I can’t, that isn’t of me. I can’t say anything that isn’t about me. Everything I say is about me. Saying it sounds so endlessly self centered an..d there we are—oops, I am. Sorry. I am always in the midst of myself. Everything I say to you is part of this story I make amke kmae emak about me. But I make art, photos, bang drums to find another language so we can, you know, talk about you for a minute. This rhythm, this powm/poem/mope can be about you, or maybe this photograph, only not this one because it is a portrait, self.
In this one I am the tree, surrounded by minions of fallen faithful, maybe its Mecca, “maybe its their first time around” and they are the fallen and this pilgrimage is not what they signed up for.
Or I am the root stretching out from the tree, finally a stretch ,and stretching and reaching to the interesting and meaningless and pleasing, in its pattern, dirt, in the foreground. I could be that root and I would find that shout-out, that nod, to the dirt pattern good enough. And you can be the endlessly beautiful, perfectly contained and random enough so we are not bored and sunshine yellow co-creators in my portrait of me reaching to the dirt and being this tree in the Spring in the photo, all of us, at last.