You've probably never heard of him. Unless you're a serious photographer.
from the Wynn Bullock website
I went to the Wynn Bullock retrospective at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, expecting 100 photographs that mimicked Ansel Adams, his more famous contemporary.
Instead, I found myself alone. Wandering three galleries of otherworldly photographs. Unlike anything. Unique.
Would it be weird to admit some of the images called to me?
Eclectic reader? Adventurous reader? Snobbish reader?
I've been called all those things by people who aren't readers. Because to me, a person is either a reader or they're not.
I classify books as "great books" and "dreck." Period. I don't even pay attention to the genre, because I don't care. A good book deserves to be read, especially when we are served up so many not-good-books and told to love them. (The Goldfinch, anyone?)
If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking. - Haruki Murakami
Maybe Murakami's quote applies to everything. Perhaps I'll out myself as a hopeless snob. If I lose a few readers or start a debate, GREAT. I'm typing what I have to say, because I can't sit on it any longer.
I am sick of the simpering sameness that permeates all creative forms today. From the same few music acts whose auto-tuned voices are beamed at me everywhere I turn/click/read to our dismal summer movie offerings to 'must read' book lists that are all composed of the same PR'd-to-death tomes, I am an isolated, dejected weirdo who must not like anything popular or socially accepted.
What bothers me about this isn't that social media seems to have turned our entire society into a herd of sheep, or that I feel like I have been sent on an endless trip back to high school where nobody ever graduates, grows up or evolves. No. I can deal with those things.
It bothers me to see myself becoming what I despise.
Admit it. You want to be that person. Like in the movie The Legend of Zorro? When Antonio Banderas met Catherine Zeta-Jones for the first time?
He made her clothes fall off with his, ahem, blade.
Maybe she wore a pillbox hat. A tailored sheath. Gloves would've been appropriate, given her precious cargo.
Whatever she wore, when she showed up with a vat of white sangria, the Beaufort Book Bashers treated her with Camelot-like awe. Or they made fun of her with Kennedy-esque wit. Or they lubricated their book discussion with tequila-fueled hallucinations.