Truthful Fictions

At times, the entire country of Spain feels as if Europe and Africa’s loins are shrink-wrapped  into one remarkable experience: To be surrounded by the inimitable scorched earth, again: The Sun of Justice beds the El Solano: I am naked to the mind–My DNA remains in full view splayed for all to see.

Giants, art history’s gargantuas make for imaginary possibilities: They appear in my sky like jellyfish spanning seven oceans: A mercurial day in a human’s life is near. The cumulative effect from ageless experiences is near an end.

One day, I realized Madrid is home to every chiaroscuro shadow I dreamed for: My intentions as in marriage are sincere: I stood face to face with the hotel’s ten-foot window: My eyes imagined a patterned sweeping view of Madrids’ city circle: I was on the phone with a well regarded New York art dealer of particular character: A gadfly of sorts to most but with me a sonorous revelation of intrigue; A chess piece (possibly a pawn) in the beginnings of America’s abstract expressionism- -the beginnings of modern America: The education of all things relevant to who I am feels self taught: The art dealer told me stories that altered my views, my understandings of mountains- – It was not unlike …White Elephants atop the horizons:

Madrid, imagined by me, ferried among the streets many likenesses to John Singer Sargent’s “El Jaleo.” My art dealer, hidden and costumed like Kiplings’ Peachey in The Man Who Would Be King, among them: The entire Spanish population flamencoing in the blackness of the city. I made pictures.

The personal becomes emotional for many reasons: The autopilot in me was shifting speeds. I found more experiences truly kissing the eyes I imagined: Salvador Dali, e.g., was a wish that only partially manifested.

Without hesitation, I dream more surreal than I might imagine–and again:

Before I sun-tanned atop a hotel retreat in Mallorca: I was in a frenzied state of mind for more than one-thousand miles of travel. I assumed a brief suspension of chaos, a few hours in the Prado Museum. I communed with heroes of another time. Then the Turkish Coffee phenomenon kicked in: I remember driving and a bit more from Madrid to Barcelona, Port Lligat, Costa Bravo, Costa del Sol, Valencia to the unwelcome ferry to Mallorca. The geography I traveled across filled my mind with dreams I had never been prepared for: I saw cities and architecture-cities and citizens-cities and views of a landscape-cities and my own education of life to be…I could not relax waiting for my appointment: The days will always be remembered as if I were an alien my own planet.

“Sometimes it takes you a long time to sound like yourself.”

Miles Davis.

Miles’ wisdom to date has not quite touched me: I daily, possibly hourly, imagine traveling back in time many decades. I count each film/digital frame of a lifetime looking for the answers- – listening for who is to be myself: Then and for decades to follow, I was making pictures as only I could: I was not an alien anywhere when the camera led me to what would become. Maybe the greatest days then and now:

Joan Miró opened his door for me. Something happened that I cannot interpret: I was photographing a particular kind of fame. I was living for a few seconds of a day in their–the artists’ oxygen. I Inhaled and exhaled in the twilight of Surrealism. I was within arm’s distance of the magnificent: The figures in art history I have only dreamed about.