I know not what I will write.
In the past, a few minutes ago, I wrote with pen on paper. Some words that related to my thoughts and feelings about 'appearance'.
I now look up, a person in the distance, about the size of my coffee cup, this appearance. I make sense of appearance in all sorts of ways. It's a form of knowing. I think of photographs and how photographs make sense of appearance. The older form of photography, negatives, prints, slides, was a delayed form of knowing what I had photographed. I waited for the prints to come back, wondering what I would see, what I would recognise, what I would make sense of. In a way the photographs made sense for me, photographs made sense of appearance. But it didn't feel that simple. Photographs make sense in very particular ways. I wondered about this 'making sense' and 'meaning', and these feelings when with a particular photograph. And words, associated with photographs, so different from the feelings. I didn't want to explain my feelings in relation to particular photographs. In the early 1960s I was given some colour slide film. I went out close to my birthday to try the film out, to make some photographs. It was cold, it had snowed overnight, the sun was glinting, soft light, magical. I didn't think these words, I just felt the magic. One of the photographs I made stayed with me, I've probably written about this before, it was a different sort of photograph, which I liked in a particular way. The photograph wasn't so much about appearance; how things looked in a photograph, but for me it was how things felt in a photograph, more to do with mood and atmosphere. I vaguely felt this was the sort of photography I liked doing. This was when I became a little more interested in something called photography. The next year I got a job in Soho working for a photographer. Photography in their world was so different from the photography I liked. I have some writings somewhere about this. Like all writing, it needs to be written, and over time re-read, re-wriiten, never finished, but alive, never stuck away in a book, on a shelf, but kept alive, moving around, being re-read, re-written. Never fixed in concrete. This decaying; sifting, sifting, arranging, re-arranging is about being alive.