A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I starred in a play. A musical called "South Pacific." Perhaps you've tried to Wash That Man Right Out Of Your Hair while having Some Enchanted Evening falling In Love With a Wonderful Guy on Bali H'ai?
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?
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.
He wouldn't hold my hand. Maybe it was flashes of my creamy skin through black crochet. The way I harvested salad from my plate. When he paid the bill, we stepped onto blue stone, merged with soupy air.
"Let's walk.......if your feet will be okay in those shoes."
The three-year-old choir children twirled and giggled as they were led in a knot of single-file to the carpeted steps at the front of the church. Perfect Shirley Temple curls were accentuated with red and green ribbon. Sprays of plastic berries and twinkling tinsel erupted from shimmering outfits.
And, of course, there were the obligatory boys.