Architecture of Cities: Mapping Beauty XXIV, the Last Building

Fictional Truth

I use photography as a  memoirist might write. The self in reflection- -the reflection of the self: Possibly the greatest remembrance a picture can be in the hand held eyes:

The planet appears lonely: The continents afloat asea. Imaginative perspectives emotionally  amaze: Valhalla and nightmares appear like chaos and quietude: The photographer’s labyrinth emits warning signals: Majestic views ahead: A career of pleasurable burdens: Nothing stands alone: We navigate the unknown with a certain glee; Even in fear there is the promise- – and so we move forth:

The stories of architecture live in my many memories: They appear also as perspectives in Homer’s Odyssey, Ayn Rand’s Fountainhead and prominently in my travels. Sifted in the swell of dreams are imagined histories and simple truths.

Cinema’s  Wild Strawberries and  Lawrence of Arabia: equally allure my eyes to what the mind sees: It is akin to being a Magpie in the night: Mischievous thoughts stolen from experiences of others comfortably bedded in my camera’s format: A lifetime of a waking dream in plain sight: My reality is blessed.

Lost in Siena, Italy: The Palio di Siena heard imaginably: An intoxicating surround: A maze of stone and dreams: Something stood, posed, ahead: Something built with marble, clay and more: A secret front and centered: There is no known directional: The reward of a lifetime is to be lost in another world with a camera’s ammunition and a seek and adventure chirping desire. I never escaped the charm of being lost with discoveries at hand.

Every city sans gps: My sense of discovery supersedes my logic and I wander alone: What needs to be captured what needs to be lived before a forever vanishes before capture. It is the way photographs of cities become: No deserts, nor oceans lure my inspirations: To discover what may become- -The accident, the wrong turn, the mistake that cannot be retrieved- – that is where my eyes have always lived:

There are places in between histories, that we know and histories to become: If only you could hear architect Frank Gehry say to me- -“how did you see that” referring to one of his buildings: My answer is “intuition”: The truth is- – The Thirteenth Tribe: A wandering migration to what I believed could be a capture destined: What follows is the unexplainable: Lost in Siena…is my everyday- -the only way I know to allow the camera to discover architecture in fractions: Shutter-speeds and dimensions are found with precisions- -discovered by happenstance.

I edit my camera’s captures in rewind:The era of ages: Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age, Middle Ages and more are seen as archaeological digs. The camera makes every thing possible.

Alone, I am always looking for the two dogs who know each other: They will lead me to the open air: The Siena Cathedral: Somewhere in Dublin or Barcelona: Somewhere in Chicago or Dhaka: They will lead I will follow.

Alone history warns  an army of eyes: Take a breath quickly and equally slowly from where you stand: Make a soft pirouette of the mind: See what you see: Photograph to travel through time: Travel to remember- – remember where you have traveled: Memory reminds: A bow to Proust is in order.

My photography of architecture is not unlike Borges’ The Library of Babel: Every second I consider the infinite: There is everything to consider and much to lay your eyes on: The flood of history the stories of faded glories, the intimate reveal- – the capture and begin again.