He passed the stages of his age and youth
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The series Wasteland originated in Margate, England, a coastal town that long ago lost its luster and charm. When I made my plans to travel to its shore it was not the town I wanted to explore but the essence of the scenes I might experience on its beaches. It was to these same sands and this same sea that J.M.W. Turner and T.S. Eliot turned when they needed to call the muses for inspiration. In need of a bit respite and with the intention to create a very different body of work, I followed in their footsteps on a pilgrimage of sorts. I found myself on the English coast with predictably no sun, no warmth, and unexpectedly virtually no one on its beaches. Plans seemingly ruined by a near constant rain and the uninspiring gray on gray sea and sky, I turned inward. I explored my little borrowed flat filled with color and collections and found both the odd and the delightful. Everyday I was determined to return to the promenade and down to the sands to photograph the same gray on gray sea and sky occasionally marked by dulled green or blue. My exterior wanderings mirrored my mind and mood. The cobwebs remained. The doldrums failed to lift. As the hours and days moved ever onward, I discovered that my internal space had become my muse. The odd and the delightful aspects of my own quiet and often lonely self could be found within each frame. Unexpected, sometimes playful, but inspired none the less by Margate.
The wind under the door
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This music crept by me upon the waters
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These fragments I have shored against my ruins
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Lilacs out of the dead land
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You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
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show you fear in a handful of dust
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Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed
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In vials of ivory and coloured glass
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The awful daring of a moment's surrender
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You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember Nothing?
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I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
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At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
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Memory and desire, stirring
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I could not Speak, and my eyes failed
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Another hid his eyes behind his wing
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satin cases poured in rich profusion
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White bodies naked on the low damp ground
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The awful daring of a moment's surrender
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pleasant whining of a mandoline
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Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest
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The broken finger-nails of dirty hands
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Bestows one final patronizing kiss
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They wash their feet in soda water
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Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled
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Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays
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At the violet hour
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Red sails Rippled both shores
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And a clatter and a chatter from within
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She turns and looks a moment in the glass
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After the frosty silence in the gardens
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brings the sailor home from sea
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The typist home at tea-time
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And fiddled whisper music on those strings
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Those are pearls that were his eyes
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What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
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Murmur of maternal lamentation
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Picked his bones in whispers
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broken images where the sun beats
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Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
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Paces about her room again, alone
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Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door
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