New York State Appellate Division of the Supreme Court: New York City.
Truthful Fictions
Michelangelo gave Rome’s Adam and God life’s gift of an invisible sacrament: The spark of the divine- -the memorably memorable: The collaboratively greet- -is a greatness while in the residence of eyes not mine- -Mine eyes were not theirs:
More than hundreds, yet Oscar Niemeyer, Philip Johnson, Frank Gehry, Richard Rogers, Paulo Mendes, Hans Hollein, Zaha Hadid too whispered while hands held: Moments constructed remembered profoundly: The unexpected delight (not on par within the “Chapel”) felt within abstract precisionism: My mind forever planted in furtive soils across the planets continents. The captures that became a hush: Moments with words of others. Those I have known, framed my contributions to architecture’s photography.
The Moment
“The moment when, after many years of hard work and a long voyage you stand in the centre of your room, house, half-acre, square mile, island, country, knowing at last how you got there, and say, I own this…”
Margaret Atwood
New York City: Frank Gehry meets Annabelle Selldorf meets Shigeru Ban.
I imagine Ms. Atwood equally running with hair in the wind, joy in the field of lilies…floating with forlorn as if Marc Chagall’s Bella in “Nocturne.” The imaginary sight might remind me of sounds to follow: Momentary moments are spoken: We, here, listen as one, two expressions of moments to live by: My camera hears sounds a wee bit differently than the Atwood “speak”.
Brief, the briefest of thoughts my camera recalls: Yet the enlightenment that is Andrei Tarkovsky leaves me mingling within the reflective moments home to The Mirror: His moments of reminiscing of emotional sightings skyward; reflect those someone elses- -Not mine. The force of their aesthetic contributions resonated and will resonate until…:
Coping with moment’s time lost to history and horizons is freakish in part because of the commons: It is common for men and women, communities and communities of architecture to vanish in the same way that “Tongues”- -languages of history are no longer spoken: Languages in hands not mine: Voices reminded of the ancients- – ancient languages vanishing and vanished: The need to be resurrected is a memory: Like architecture there is an emptiness not to be recalled or remembered>my camera with efforts attempts to record before that black hole swallows the memories entirely among us. Affected I was, I am: Voices carried- -ears remembered, the distant distance ahead: A limited caw of a bird splayed in song hardly remembered.
NYC: Virgin Hotel meets the Collegiate Marble Church.
The faces in large and even larger formats became calculated captures of time built by geniuses of another mind: I reasonably attack with exaggerated passions utilizing the widest lenses, apertures to capture the expanse that become expansive ideas, architecture’s details.
One afternoon Oscar Niemeyer embraced my hands: The other aforementioned architects did the same: Certainly with a different gesture to follow: They acknowledged what I do- -Yet my eyes (as my eyes often do) caught a glimpse of another thought: “This is a mere idea: You must understand the architecture I made: Now allow your lens to pursue it with good fortunes.
My journey has not been episodic nor Pilgrim’s Progress narrative: The camera’s dreamery that is my imaginary place is where the very hush originates: The captures become.
New York City: 42nd street convergence of …
