Medium:Archival Signed Edition Photograph
Size (h x w):41cm x 56cm
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Importers of Silence
I find photography quite remarkable in that it records events that
otherwise would pass by leaving little or no trace. Many seem not
to understand the value of selection that it is in itself a creative act.
There is more, because the process requires discipline and analysis if
you are to continuously evolve as an image-maker.
There are levels of intuition and emotional response coupled with
layers of knowledge, experience. The projected need to extract from
the subject some powerful qualities and make an image in such a way
that it communicates those elements to others. So many fine-artists
regard themselves a rarefied breed, that communication to others is
beneath them or not something they are involved with. That leaves
me wondering why they frame, show, price and sell or publish images.
I had a parcel of time, one hour to explore on a very hot day in summer.
I made my way towards a quaint old-town street, aware of so many
incongruous elements. Over- manicured displays, a self conscious
attempt to embellish the historic resulting in the kitch. An indigestible
proliferation of signs, cars and people to disrupt the spirit.
However, just occasionally they don't.
I first saw the sun on the drapes. I stood back able to view the whole
facade as very unusually there were no cars. Businesses come and go
frequently, each owner putting their stamp on the premises.
I am intrigued by the 'no-man's-land' state after and before polarisation.
Here the building speaks for itself, unadorned and weathered, offering
the gohsts in its history to a fertile imagination.
In a world were we demand even crave great noise and disruption,
feerfull that quietest inner voice might summon truths to be avoided.
Places of great quiet are vacuous to the young, but bring solace to the
elderly. The paintings of Edward Hopper were a semi conscious trigger
mechanism for this fleeting, evocative image.
Here the subject sits back from the viewer making no demands.
The shop becomes a being. Gently and humbly it hands back its history.
An awning between two modest sentinels, the darkly beconing womb of
a faceless door, the absence of human voices, not even the sound
of a shuffling foot or the bubbling of a boiling kettle, a container for
transitory meetings and lost words.
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