What makes you move?

About 40 years ago I found a small book. It described tropical fish in the Amazon. I imagined them swimming in the tea colored water. I imagined the dust, the pieces of wood, the plants covered with debris. I never saw pictures of that but my imagination was vivid.

The images that I had in my head lead me to read more, to visit libraries and dig up books that nobody ever opened, to learn Latin names, to learn photography, to try to learn German, to expand my Russian even further, to learn English, to steal glass and to learn to cut it to make my own fish tanks at the age of 11. And eventually to go to college graduating in both Biology and Chemistry.

In America I was part of an aquarium club that lead me to meet many, many interesting people. It created connections that allowed me to help others with personal problems. I partnered in a rare fish import business and imported and sold fish that were not even described by science yet. I witnessed the modern day revival followed by the commercialization and devaluation of the planted aquarium hobby.

I learned that what you love can never be put in words. What we love we can only admire it with eyes wide open – like little kids looking at a butterfly or a blade of grass. Today I know that a child’s imagination is one of the most precious things in this world. That is one of the fundamental forces that makes the world move.

A few tiny fish on the background of dusty wood and leaves.

Have you heard the saying “People see only as much as they know.”?

I’d change that to “People see only as much as they are.”

Today I took this picture looking down at the ground. Obviously.  This is the pavement in front of one of the largest hospitals in Dallas.  And here’s the story behind it;

I talked to three people today.

I called the first man to ask some questions about work.  He was somewhere far away. By the end of the day I learned that he was in another state, another city.
His brother died today.

The second man sat in a big comfortable chair.  We were on the 7-th floor and the big window offered a view of downtown, large green trees, a beautiful fall Sunday afternoon.
The man was strapped to the chair.  He had tubes going in and out of his legs and arms.
He had several white pieces of gauze on his head.
The place was a hospital. The conversation resembled an auto focus camera that does not focus well every single time.
He had 4 brain surgeries this month.

The third man I could not see today despite my best intentions.  He called me in the late afternoon. In the last month we’ve been doing things together to take his mind off his unemployment.  He does not know if next month he can afford the tiny apartment he’s been living in for a few years now. He spent the day helping someone else move.
He was in good spirits.

I do not know why the pavement had that bright spot mark and the “X” cut in the paver. But it made me think of this day – quiet, painted in the golden sun light of fall. A day like many other beautiful autumn days – days that were and days that will be.

Hopefully.

One rainy day I saw a leaf on the wet pavement.  Things were changing.  Something had left but all of us were still there believing that change was still in the future.

The leaf seemed to be such and ephemeral object – alive and green yesterday, red and wet on the pavement today, who knows where tomorrow.  The way it was was a matter of moments.

I took a picture. I played with the colors. This is the way everything was that day.

One day I was preparing some salmon to cook.  I looked at the tray.  There was this pink fish on it.  I thought of the sea.

The sea with all it’s colors and shapes that defy imagination.

I took a picture.  I played with the colors. This is how I thought of the fish.

One day I walked into the store and saw a big pile of garlic.  There was something about it that made me look closer.  I took a picture.  I played with the colors.

I don’t remember how the garlic looked.  But I do remember the urge to make a photograph that looked like a drawing.  So here it is.

This morning I took a picture of a tree lit by the morning sun.  It is fall here now and some trees have already lost all of their leaves.

The intense red-orange light made the branches glow.

But the best part was that I knew that the colors will be there for only a few minutes. Nobody around, no one to see what I saw.

One day, a few years ago, I had a wonderful time near a dumpster. Holding my breath, trying not to look at the streaks of unknown half-hardened fluids all over the container.

It was great until I found a magazine page with an advertisement that said “Nice to meet you” in big, white letters. At this point things got serious;

I found a way to attach the page to the stained dumpster. You can see the result above.

This was about doing something unexpected.  About creating something unexpected. Stepping into an unknown that you feel pushing from within you.

In this case it was as simple as doing something that you don’t think you will see in a place where you have to hold you breath and rush to get away from.

Not sure how that is art but attaching the page to the dumpster felt like something hard to describe. For a short while time and place disappeared.

Or maybe I had have just gone crazy for a few minutes.

Do you have a better idea of describing art?

Maybe you haven’t even seen a violin. Maybe you’ve only heard a violin. Maybe you have seen one but have no clue how to play it.

Does it matter what you know or don’t know? Does it matter if you can or can’t?

Do you carry something beautiful inside you that you always wanted to let out?

Play it!

The zig-zagging line of one’s life.
Held together by all the possible paths that could have been taken.
Obvious only after you traced it by living it.
A fragile structure.