“Nobody knows for certain. It’s always like that. Believe me, Mr. Rojack, the more you learn the more you know there are never any answers, just more questions.”
-- An American Dream, Norman Mailer
The other day I flew into a subtle baby’s rage, fuming yet offering no intelligible words, only sound and scowl could be an indication of my displeasure. The impetus: insolence of one who felt the entitlement to my own imagery, as if he contributed to the costs, I suffered to make such portraiture available. I assume the following conjectures from readers and passersby alike.
“What’s the big deal?”
Simply put, your mother birthed you and fed your every need, wish and desire within maternal reason, and here you stand today, an ingrate of the worst order. You understand the need for manners in many situations; for your family and the general public, there are “please” and “thank you”. To a server or chef, where food is offered, you give thanks for the meal, even a gratuity given the inclination. To what do you owe an artist sharing their work with you?
I am no monarch, nor elite – someone may even call me an amateur or hobbyist; these acknowledgements are all well and understood. Yet, it strikes me with an audacity of an adolescent swagger, rebellious and unbothered by nature, to simply demand anything from anyone with some sort of consideration. No one owes you anything, and I certainly don’t beg to take people’s pictures very much. I have a pride in the task of giving moments importance in this period and beyond, I have no qualms with doing the grunge work and development for a mere penny. Yet without respect for the work, expect no sympathy from me.
I have more work cut out for me than ever, and picturing it one shot at a time is just the way I like my art. Truth be told, I thought the transition from digital to analog, would be walk in the park, or at least a walk anywhere for that matter. Far from it, like a babe on its rump, I learn to walk again before I can run and stumble I must, but I move forward. From technical difficulties to brainstorms like hurricanes, there are many paths before me. Time and time again, I choose something scenic, somewhere the likes I’ve never seen even though often I wish to walk the familiar path. Every word I put forth my mind’s fraught with possibility. It’s no big deal.
