Robert Langham

Sunflowers 2024.

2024-05-18T15:43:00.000-07:00

Retired schoolteacher who grows Sunflowers. I like it. The Night Bloomers are currently cycling, but my Sunflowers, who I have been thinking about growing for ten years are actually standing 5 ft tall.

June of 2020, first week of the month. I shot sunflowers in the Guatemalans yard. They grew them several years in a row and I'd admired them greatly, walking the dogs every morning. Really got serious. I had a ladder and various tools to reflect light, throw shade, split exposures for half a negative, then the other half. Every morning at 7:00AM. In their front yard working the row of spectacular Sunflowers.

Guatemaleans moved on. I had thought about growing Lindsey Lane Sunflowers for a decade or two. This year I ordered a mountain of dirt, got it installed, beds torn out, re-dirted. And planted. Early March.

90 days from planting to flowers. Here we are. First blooms showing their faces.

Just....light.

Night Bloomers really to go.

Going.

Night iPhone 15.

Sunflower faces.

I'm in business. Though I may just be looking. 73 individual plants up and going.

Working the Yard at Lindsey Lane.

2024-05-18T14:18:00.000-07:00

When I really WAS a child, I got a job photographing hotels around the country. At one point I was in Connecticut, at a hotel that was the third one on its site. The first one had dumped garbage in a creek on the back of the property. The creek and the dirt was full of crockery and bits and pieces of restaurant ware. I had my normal kit, including rubber boots for wandering off to brushy viewpoints. I spent an hour in the creek pulling up bits. Really taken with broken cups and bowls.

Over the years they have dwindled for various reasons, down to just the favorites. I'm de-cluttering further around the house. Some things close to them went. They were on my mind.

Yesterday I saw a fresh mushroom while I was in the yard early with a cup of coffee. I brought in the cap and stood it up in one of the half-cups. Shot one 8X10 piece of film.

This morning another mushroom cap had emerged in nearly the same spot. If the cards get dealt that exactly, I never refuse to play a hand. I brought it in for a second, better/different/newer composition. It is better.

Now I have them all lined up in the studio. Expecting a third mushroom.

Day One

Second look.

Maybe, with good printing.

So. Tomorrow. Maybe different cup. Different mushroom. Different cut. Different me.

One more Pictura note.

2024-02-17T16:33:00.000-08:00

Curator Mia Dalglish and the Opossum from the Blackfork Bestiary.

Ten Texas Tornadoes wrapping Feb 22 at Longview Museum of Fine Art.

2024-02-12T18:05:00.000-08:00

The Blackfork Bestiary @ Pictura Gallery in Bloomington, Illinois.

2024-02-12T17:10:00.000-08:00

The Blackfork Bestiary, with some skillful curating by Mia Dalglish and Lisa Woodward, made the trip to the FAR Center for Contemporary Art in Bloomington, Indiana. It's already been there and back again. Very nice show. The selection and sequencing caught me by surprise. I didn't change a thing of their work. Curators picked prints from the unpublished and matched old favorites in ways I had never imagined. I felt like I was getting smarter just looking at their layout. The majority of art folks can leave me a bit uninspired. Was nice to meet geniuses.

Children's workshop the morning after opening.

A six-buck donut across the street.

Nice crowd opening night.

Demonstrating how you unwrap bobcats. Or something.

Lisa Woodward, lighting guru.

With smart people.

Curators Mia Dalglish and Lisa Woodward.

Getting to know Negatives....

2024-02-12T16:56:00.000-08:00

I have four notebooks of 6X9 Fuji negs, all HP5/Pyrocat. Aerial negs print a bit different. The viewpoint was new, the scene was new, et, et. Seven flights in all over three trips. Slowly settling in after burning through three 50 sheet boxes of 11X14 paper.

Shooting dawn and dusk. Orbiting Shiprock. Half the time looking down-sun, half the time up-sun into glare. Roll film with two cameras, one with a wide angle 65mm lens and one with a 100mm lens. All the film getting same processing.

I'm reshooting the same scenes on successive mornings and evenings. Something will have changed. As anyone might notice, I'm looking more at the shadows than the landscape. These images have been calling for a few decades, just took Guggenheim money to be able to lavishly go see them.

Spent decades photographing from the ground at Shiprock, always trying to get higher.

Uncorrected iPhone photos from the sheet of white flex over the fixer tray. Retouching calms them down. Going to show this portfolio of work at Fotofest in Houston next month.

Haven't named them yet.

Quick turnaround In NM.

2023-10-31T19:05:00.000-07:00

I didn't spend much time on iphone, just me and the pilot, Spent most of the time in the film cameras trying to slow down and concentrate, relax. 40 plus rolls of film and just three working days in the state.

Eastern peak of Two Gray Hills.

Airplane tracking.

Early light on Shiprock.

BIA13 cutting South Dike.

Shadow and West Dike.

Rock with wings.

West Dike.

Underfoot. Overhead. In my ear.

2023-10-12T19:20:00.007-07:00

Underfoot, Overhead, in my Hand and Ear.. Robert Langham III

Tyler, Texas.

Foot-walking. Angling down over the lip of the watershed. On red street bricks laid in the ‘20s. Under all this and all this and all this civilized neighborhoodly construct is the real landscape. About where I’m fitting my foot is a curving Caddoan creekside trail. Forgotten and buried. They followed the flow. The brick street is a straight line behind my should blade all the way through downtown. It crosses behind me to the North, a more robust segment of the Blackfork as it makes the circle North and West in a wide arc. Blackfork Creek. I’m nearly home. I am home.

Morning walk. Jupiter overhead and an arc of Venus (if you have 20X) rising. Saturn settling on the horizon behind West side trees. Shooting light, as a hunter would say. Enough so I’m looking at things instead of shapes and looms and rumors of houses and trees lurking in darkness.

In my pocket are fellow Blackforkians. Cicadas. Dead or languishing from under streetlights and on sidewalks. Being in my own country, I know where to look.

The dead will be laid out on table’s edge. The languishing will finish on the windowsill, view fading in those compound eyes made for flight. Safe from predation or parasites or dogs on leash with a taste for big insects. Everything eats them, jays to Copperheads. Or lays an egg in their remains. It’s a hatch and a feast. These in my pocket will pass in peace.

Cicadas are my favorite bug, so they were my daughter’s favorite bug. We caught them in the grass as they emerged, tracked them up tree trunks or rock walls. Watched them split their underground suits and do that weird hump & flip thing to hang untouched in air so their wings could pump out and dry. Then we would catch them, wear them like buttons or brooches. Her kindergarten class was terrified. She was very proud.

As a proud kid myself, I knew only the shed skins. They appeared as if by magic, clinging to wall, bark, and leaf. I carefully collected mason jars full and stood them along a shelf. When I was my daughters age I didn’t know the cycle or the secret of turquoise wings unfurling in the dark.

But finally, one begins to learn a little.

I liked them because they were natives, neighbors, indigenous. The landscape generated them and they cycled and cycled through time. Some are two years in the ground, some six, some eight, some fourteen, ect. So they say. I could never tell, though I asked. It was always the same old face, grilled and chitined. Big-eyed. Bug-eyed. Two weeks flying and singing and making love in the treetops while everything tried to eat them. Then into my pocket.

What don’t they do? Cascading as eggs from treetops. Underground nymphs in darkness sucking root sap. Digging out when some timer rolls over, climbing up and up to crack out and spend a couple of weeks flying and singing and mating in the sun. A good-sized bug. People sized. Singing that drowns out conversation. No stinger or bite. The green of deep pools and black lacquer. Wings like stained glass.

The first Cicada I remember seeing at Lindsey Lane was in the beak of a Blue Jay flying over my shoulder on the third floor. The Cicada was screaming. A thing I hadn’t considered. One evening Mortimer our cat darted in frantically, Cicada in mouth. The screaming was muted, but must have been unscrewing his brain from inside.

Just a few years back, when I thought I knew a bit about Cicadas, the City of Houston Parks Department got a complaint about Copperhead snakes congregating at night in Memorial Park. Calls were made and a herpetologist dispatched. He was astonished to find 50 or more Copperheads gathered around a few trees ...at midnight, eating Cicadas as they emerged from the ground. It must have been the best way to learn something new: In the dark, boot-deep in lethal serpents. Watching something inexplicable.

My work is taken out of the landscape, of things the landscape generates. So: Cicadas. I kept a ziplock bag of about 50 in the fridge that wife Katie saw every time she opened the door. Katie “got” me, tending to enjoy whatever tangent I wandered out on. That was only one of her superpowers. She was also good about questions.

“You’ve got a nice bag going there. How many do you think you need?” She asked. “I’m hoping to learn that exact number,” I replied.
“Do you know what you’re going to do with them?
“I’m waiting. It feels like something.”

“I counted, you know. Do you think you might have 60?”

“I bet 60. Or so.”

“You have 200. Plus. I gave up counting. It occurred to me they might not want to be counted.”

And so on.

When the photographic idea revealed itself it was all about the wings. The beautiful, paneled, church nave wings. The ideas flooded out of wherever ideas live and lined up in order, getting smarter as each scene was played. Wings on hands, in cups, slathered over juice glasses full of minnows, on faces. In tornadoes. They weren’t my ideas. They came from elsewhere popping into my head suddenly and without introduction. I’d learned to welcome them. I was the door. The guy with camera and film. I kept a cut-off plastic milk-jug bottom full of wings like a secret fortune. I could never have too many. Obsession. Long after the last cicada song note had faded into Winter and Spring I knew I’d run out.

I buried a lot of wingless Cicadas in the flowerbed. Slightly embarrassed about that.

On the red bricks. Gathering Cicadas. I know where to look and how. I see them across the street, down the block, on the sidewalk. A slight alarm is set for Copperheads. They must be a great delicacy. Birds chase them in intricate swoops and turns in mid-air. Dogs crunch them. They have a specialist predator: Sphecius speciosus. The Cicada Killer.

Sphecius is a large solitary digger wasp. “Large” as in bumblebee size. “Wasp” as in a yellowjacket or hornet on steroids. “Solitary” as in thank god. “Digger” as if the previous isn’t horrifying enough. As the hatch peaks they relentlessly hunt Cicadas, grappling them with all

the waspy mandibles and legs that come with flying insect predators, tumbling out of the treetops until they paralyze their prey with a species specific immobilizing sting. They frequently have to struggle their victim up something vertical (your pants leg will do) to dive off and get enough airspeed to fly with the weight and bulk of a live Cicada. The destination is a burrow freshly excavated. They get dragged below ground into familiar darkness. An egg is pasted on their abdomen. The egg hatches and the maggot begins to feed, devouring the living cicada carefully to preserve life until the last mouthfuls.

If left up to me, I’d rather stand in Copperheads in the dark. All the Cicadas wanted was to sing and mate in the Summer sunlight and heat.

Cicada Wasps require the living. I’m assembling the dead. On the sidewalk there is a fresh, expired, sung out and fucked out Cicada. With Fire Ants swarming.

The ants are cutting and drilling their way in by every seam and orifice. They don’t seem to be hauling cicada bits away, just butchering in. Maybe they are feeding on the spot.

Ants and pockets don’t mix. It leads to ants in pants, etc. So the carcass has to be chipped and flipped down the sidewalk, pausing just enough to let the ants unload and disperse. There are always more inside than out. I do rough counts: 11 off. 27 off. 17 off. 9 off. 15 out. Another 12. Finally I palm it up and walk, blowing ants away. 3 more. 7 more. 2 more. When they seem completely gone, there are another ten inside...hanging on. Make a note: There are always more Fire Ants. 200 in a freshly scoured carcass? 500?

A little righteous indignation about this. Fire Ants are a recently invasive species. Ecological disaster and displacer. How dare they! Occasionally it’s native ants, little blacks or sugar ants. Perhaps more than one species on a carcass. Exception being Fire Ants. They allow no other.

My friends. My kin. Survivors of their process. Finally falling to earth, out of time and energy. Languishing. An ant touches them with an antennae. Then more. A full assault follows. Eaten alive from inside out. The vinegar of ant pheromones filling interior voids. Sounds like horror. Perhaps it’s bliss. What would I know? The cranial system probably left until the end, the fat abdomen first on the menu.

If Cicadas are so obviously edible ...why don’t I eat them? I’m a flower photographer who chews petals. A landscaper who licks rocks. The Caddoans ate them. There are recipes online ...so so so ... But I have not. Yet. Cicada culinary cowardice I suppose. The leggy wingy-ness has thrown me. Exo-skeleton. Chitin. The freshly moulted are the best, no hardened armor and all the fat. Town bugs may contain insecticide and herbicides. 17 years of spraying the grass, of course. Going country is the best. Collect in paper sack and into freezer for 30 minutes, then stir fry with a bit of olive oil. Perhaps soon. Maybe my hesitation is because I love them too much already.

Finally, in front of my ancient camera, reversed and upside down, on my ground glass. out of my stash of wings and stack of props. Resolving some idea to image. How long was this manifestation underground, or treetop singing, or devoured by wasp maggot or invasive ant, until it came to me? Doesn’t matter. My job is to carefully fit feet to street down from the lip of the watershed and bring it home.

Shiprock shadows.

2023-09-21T08:40:00.001-07:00

After years of trying to find right conditions, a pilot, access, et, et. On the fifth actual booked flight...finally got off the runway and into the air over Shiprock.

Flight path record.

Tried again that afternoon and the next morning. Wind too high, then morning clouds. So seven attempts.

Looking at proofs. No prints to speak of yet. And watched through the summer for another chance to get to Farmington.

Busy in the West...kinda.

2023-09-21T08:33:00.002-07:00

It's the oddest thing. The only folks who have seen my Guggenheim Portfolio are me and the selection committee. Nobody else curious enough to ask. I'm not much of a self promoter. That's just the way it is.

But....I've been in the West four trips, working. As the Guggenheim person said: "Light having sex in the desert."

2023-09-21T07:55:00.004-07:00

Ten Texas Tornadoes and other stories. At Longview Museum of Fine Arts through December 20.

Very capable staff and support at LMFA.

Stacy Odom and I did the sequencing. Settled in Nicely.

43 framed pieces. Largest exhibit I've ever had outside of Brick Street Anthology at Tyler Museum of Art back in 2016.

Signing prints.

I had Hanson Design and CAFE Xpress print some promotional post cards.

San Angelo TV coverage of 10 Texas Tornadoes.

2023-02-07T12:27:00.003-08:00

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5RSRLLm-pNA

Texas Artist of the Year Nomination.

2022-10-26T13:33:00.000-07:00

Honored and humbled to be considered for Texas Artist of the Year. I'd hang my hat on these selections out of two series. Both were begun when my beloved wife Katie Wintters was diagnosed with cancer in 2014. We both moved closer and closer to home as that cycle progressed. I thought it was a good idea to quit traveling and stay home and work on still life photos.

I'm a very native regionalist. I work out of my home and yard on Lindsey Lane in Tyler, Texas. I trust the everything I need is within arms reach here in the upper Blackford Creek Watershed.

My work flow is as follows: An idea arrives in my imagination. I think of ways to get it on a piece of film. I keep failing until it arrives.

Lucy waiting on photography to end and lunch to begin.

Tornadoes arrived and blew through my studio.

Ten Texas Tornadoes.

Moonado

Puzzle Twister.

Modern life. Who doesn't have one of these spinning inside?

Dicenado

I'm enamored with the idea of luck and chance.

Candle Twister.

Magic & Logic

Mashing up items from the neighborhood. AC Gentry's granddaughter and neighbors Magnolias.

Triple Magnolias.

Illuminated Manuscript.

My neighbors have learned to tolerate me over the years. Here's Byron posing.

Tulip Tree Hat

Ike Crutcher, native Tylerite, 1899-1985. His fedora and Sallie Gentry's, 1914-2006), Tulip Tree Blossoms.

Wisteria Scissors.

A pair of scissors that stayed in my prop pile for a few decades matched up with Wisteria blooms from a brief Spring season.

Fallen Stacked Dogwood Leaves.

Dogwood trees are beautiful all year. The leaves stack best if you catch them in the air as they fall.

All images made on film with darkroom. I don't use photoshop except when folks insist of getting one of these really large.

At Tyer Museum of Art.

This work is included in every regional collection in Texas. Gernsheim, MFAH, TMA. Southeast Texas, the Comer Collection, Amon Carter, et. I have about 20 various bodies of work commissioned or self-determined. I'm a Guggenheim Fellow for 2022. Ably represented by Foto Relevance in Houston, Texas.

Just a note: My dear Friend AC Gentry was Texas Artist of the Year in 1972 for his watercolors.

Thanks for your consideration. God Bless Texas and all of its people.

Out of the Clint Wilhour estate.

2022-10-18T12:44:00.003-07:00

Two cyanotypes added to the 22 pieces in the Museum of Fine Arts Houston collection. These are the first ones from this century, my most productive by far. Just like Clint to get them in. I'm grateful.

Two images made out of the the neighborhood, the yard, and within arms reach.

11 Photographs...plus.

2022-04-10T16:27:00.005-07:00

Wide brush survey of works from various portfolios. Still life and Landscape are polar opposites...so I'm not two people. Just switch up the way I work. Controls all set at the opposite. In Landscape, god does all the subject matter, lighting, arranging props. In the studio for still life...you're god...so have good ideas.

Moonset, Shiprock, NM, 1999

Triple Magnolias, 2019

Fledgling American Crow, 1993

From Blackfork Bestiary.
Still available as card from Borealis Press, Blue Hill Maine.

Puzzlenado, 2017

From Ten Texas Tornadoes. Classic Kinetic still life. 8X10 film. No photoshop. Cyanotype.

Flowered Fingers

The Hand of Sabazuis portfolio.

Dogwood Pages, 2019

Magic & Logic portfolio.

Fallen Stacked Dogwood leaves, 2018

Magic & Logic.

The Dot, Shiprock, NM

Puzzlenado.

as a silver print.

Snail Hand, 1994

From Blackfork Bestiary.

South Dike, 2010

Shiprock.

57 Moonado.

Ten Texas Tornadoes.

Bullfrog in Beaker.

Blackfork Bestiary.

Illustrated Manuscript.

Hand of Sabazuis.

Light in the desert.

Penumbra.

I've quit photographing subject and started watching light play.

Owl Feather Twister

Ten Texas Tornadoes.

Feather Box.

Magic & Logic.

Morning Shadow, Shiprock, NM.

Fotorelevance

2022-04-09T13:27:00.003-07:00

The fabulous Bryn Larson and Geoffrey Koslov represent me at Fotorelevance in Houston. There's a flat file full of photographs that will heal the lame, let the blind see and make the poor rich. Everybody should have a few.

I'm in most of the good museum collections in the region, and some of the bad ones. I was at the height to my powers...then this happened. Now people will probably bring babies to me to be named.

Scroll down far enough and there are cyanotypes, Guatemalan Sunflowers, Penumbra, Shiprock, et.

https://fotorelevance.com

Guggenheim dark side...

2022-04-09T13:17:00.004-07:00

I fully acknowledge that I am intended to use my newly bestowed powers for GOOD and not EVIL...

But last night, out dancing, with the Blue Gypsy, I remembered a jam-out-darkroom-film-processing-session and realizing that a song I liked...was a PERFECT double-step.

Perfect. I'm not guessing.

The place we were in isn't a hard honky tonk. It's about 1/2 Tonk on the English Honky-Tonk scale. Maybe 3/5ths Tonk on the Metric. Nice joint.

So I stick a post-it with request on a dollar bill and stroll over to the DJ booth. I just happen to know that the DJ has an art degree.

I hit him with the request. His eyes go a bit wide as he reads and the first words he blurts out are "I don't think I can play that."

This is a song by an American artist. I'm in America. It's Friday night in Texas, by god. I want Nelly. "Ride Wit Me." I give him a poker face like I can see the Matrix inside him.

"Do you know what a Guggenheim Fellowship is?" He does. "Well, grasshopper, I'm a Guggenheim Fellow. Just announced. And I want this song R...F...N. I've requested and I've tipped. And do I need to mention the Guggenheim Fellowship again?"

Poor guy just crumbled. Face fell apart. Like watching a vampire burn away in daylight. San Angelo State.

Three songs later, in the middle of a country string, he plays the classic rap song. The Blue Gypsy and I cut the rug UP. It IS the perfect double-two.

I know I should be ashamed. I know this was wrong. But God help the first curator I want something from.....

It must be the mon-ey.

Guggenheim....Fellows.

2022-04-07T19:09:00.007-07:00

Ok. They DIDN'T sober up. I was on my local college campus helping out in the Art Club Art Auction. The phone rang and it was Anne Tucker, congratulating me. I'm standing in the hall with nobody to hug.

I'd gotten the email a month or so ago, informing me, but then it started dragging. Like Christmas in the first grade....and your parents keep moving it. We'll do it Thursday. No, Saturday better. Monday for sure. Did we say Monday? Some things came up. How about Wednesday? Oopps. Conflict. Middle of next week suit everyone?

Still. I know about what suffering is and isn't. What to ignore and what to monitor. Quit worrying. You live to serve this ship. Enjoy this perfect life and row well.

Meanwhile...chopping wood and hauling water. Light show across the street subsides as the Sun works North. White trees come and go. Dogwoods spring open. Lots of dancing and film flow by.

Fighting Knives with Flowers. Leaning out over Blackford Creek with a pair of scissors counting

Dogwood bracts. 3:30AM Pyrocatting some HP5/8X10 while having a darkroom country dance jam. Loving working in the silence of the night while the planets creak overhead and Lucy snoozes under the bed. .

Many fingerprints on this. So many folks reminding me, encouraging me. ( Or telling me NO.) Plus me. I tend to gnaw away at things decade after decade. I will name them later, but they know who they are. Gotta love those human beings. Charles Sowders who taught as he learned. John Beck at Sam Houston and his unbending discipline to the process. The Good Doctor Sneed. Len Kowitz. Geoffrey and Bryn at Fotorelevance. The sharp-eyed Cindy Willis sitting beside me at Fotofest, watching reviewers..judging them. Mark Baldwin at Borealis Press. My Soulmates Rita Lombardi and Katie Leanne Wintters. Anne Tucker. Ron Gleason. Roy Flukinger. Chris Johnson. Ted Orland. Ansel. Patrick Kelly. Caleb Bell. Chris Leahy. Ken and Kim Tomio. Mom. Mac Miller. Judy Tedford Deaton. Arif Khan. Phyliss Kennedy. Students by the row and calamities who arrived with gifts in their claws. Every dance partner who went around the line of dance with me while I worked things out. Iris Davis. It's a great privilege and responsibility. Hope I remember to stand up straight and act right.

Many thanks to the Guggenheim folks who have made this possible generation after generation. We're the excited new kids on the back of the line, jostling and fidgeting around..but far to the front, we can see Ansel and Weston.

What a life.

Catching a shadow in a Jar and Paperwhite boxes.

2022-03-22T12:10:00.004-07:00

8X10 work in my tiny studio. Ideas, ideas, ideas...

River House, San Juan River at Comb Ridge.

2022-03-22T12:08:00.000-07:00

River House ruin is a heavily trafficked ruin, near Bluff, Utah. Traditionally it was accessible only by boat. There were photo workshops that worked this part of the river. When I went, you could drive in an audacious 2-wheel vehicle or a 4WD. I caught a ride with an old college friend, Steve Mulligan, from Moab.

This ruin claimed by the Hopi. Access by car now reduced. You might park and walk in...or come by boat on the way to Mexican Hat.

Got to ruin and immediately headed for the quietest light.

I'd really come for the door at the bottom, and was glad to see it in person.

5X7 and HP5/Pyrocat.

Camera at Zero

2022-03-13T10:26:00.003-07:00

Buzzing around last night with a little bit of time..to do something and several somethings that could be done.

Decided to build a flower arrangement that has suddenly appeared.

Several steps in finding tools, materials, fabricating the thing. In still life, everything in the image is something the photographer brings. Like being god. Since this was a new idea in a new studio, a little bit of hunting and gathering was required. Into my supplies, tool drawer, garage can outside, neighbors yard for the flowers. Then learning how to put it together.

Just so.

Also remembered the wise Rita Lombardi, (MFA), telling me that her instructor, way back in basic, had admonished them to put their camera controls all at "zero" to begin the process. I do that, but I hadn't heard it put so plainly.

Good advice.

Shot a sheet. Changed a few things. Shot another. Today I tore it all down and started again. Same photo, mostly...with changes.

I really don't know anything about flowers. They just keep jumping in front of the camera.

Light Ballet every morning.

2022-03-05T09:26:00.002-08:00

My friend AC Gentry is gone but I get to watch the light work out on his garage/studio wall every morning. It's nice. Shooting a little film. Half a roll a day or so...

Through the camera with a Y@ filter.

Flattened, spotted, signed...

2022-02-24T13:33:00.004-08:00

Afternoon flea-combing prints. Just the usual. Quite a process for an image to make it to film, to proof, to print to exhibit. Really, almost nothing makes it through process. I have whole bodies of unseen work with no place to go. Doesn't matter I guess. Make more. More people have seen things online than anywhere else.

River House, Utah

Copperhead in Martini Glass.

Fallen bough, Wild Pear

Feather ladder.

Dogwood Pages, Feather Ladder, Cicada hand.

Feathered fingers and Copperhead Martini.

Morning light show at AC Gentry's garage wall.

2022-02-22T08:42:00.003-08:00

Obsessed with watching. I want something. What IS that, exactly?

Plowing creative ground. Flowering.

2022-02-22T08:38:00.001-08:00

Renter of 30 years is in nursing home. Chances not good of return. She had an Amaryllis bulb in a sack that started growing in a circle. I liberated it from the sack and put it in a pot. In the light. Trying to get curve out.

I don't know anything about flowers. Someone had to correct me on what it actually was. I thought Iris. May not photograph, but will watch and watch. Is there anything to learn, really, ever?

Maybe if my hand forms get enough light they will bloom. Never know.