How

The heat is back. It’s supposed to get to 100°F today. The indoor/outdoor cat is locked away in the coolness of the dungeon. The ducks were put to pasture early, sprinkler on, as the coop is in a metal barn. The DSL is acting up as it always does on days such as this. I am left to my devices. Devises.

I went out to hear music last night. A last minute decision, of sorts. Received notice, rescheduled the delivery of firewood, and hit the road. I could look up the names of the performers but I don’t think it really matters. People made sounds. Minimal sounds with a bass clarinet, violin, viola, cello, stand-up bass and electricity. I kept my own beat.

I’m not a big fan of most live music. I can name few artists whom I have seen and did not prefer their recordings over their personages. I’d rather be home. Last night was no different. Not that I minded the noise, for I will gladly listen to the same (KBOO.FM, Mondays from 2000-2200 PST) as I work at the computer. In fact, I work quite well with droning in the background. With a live performance, one feels obligated to watch as well as listen; and while I could have made the watching my work, writing in my head what I was seeing and hearing, the performance was so minimal I eventually chose to just close my eyes and work in there.

I thought about this latest series of photographs, the burns. Is further recontextualization really necessary when the photos are already edited and the land sculpted? During a set break, I share this question with my friend sitting next to me. He mentions the painter Richard Diebenkorn, and although aware of the name, I have to make a mental note for google. I tell him the quandary is pushing me to return to another “grass” series, the “Riding Lawnmowers across America.” He says he likes that work, and in that this friend is also a gallery director, I take special note.

I cannot say that the performers’ next set contained what may be considered a “note” of music. Tones, squeals and such, so I closed my eyes again, nodded off and lightly dreamed. When I opened my eyes, it was time to go home.

Refreshed, I continued to work while driving. The lawnmower series is easy. I just go out and shoot. Other ideas worked their way in. They involved dead animals, Altoid tins, whiskey bottles and cigarette packs. Ritualized empties-ness. I can’t help myself. The vices.