Bird Eight: Look at Me

I first stumbled on Look at Me about three years ago (I think). I was discovering the joys of "found" art/objects at the time, and I found a photograph at the public library -- I planned to send it in, but I wasn't sure if it was old enough (I will send it now). I love the rules: the photos must be candid shots of at least one (unknown) person looking at the camera, from at least 25 years ago. (So, in one sense, Look at Me is the opposite of Running from Camera -- dontcha love it?) Frederic Bonn, owner/originator of the site, describes the collection:

"These photos were either lost, forgotten, or thrown away. The images now are nameless, without connection to the people they show, or the photographer who took them. Maybe someone died and a relative threw away their photographs; maybe someone thought they were trash..." (MORE)

These photos are ordinary, comfortingly familiar, surprising and heartbreaking all at once. Expect several birds. (Thanks very much to Fred Bonn for permission to "borrow" from his wonderful collection).

Image 177

Hansel Poses by the Oven, 1919 After weeks of plying the wretch with sausages and sticky buns, meat pies, potatoes and puddings, of daily squeezing the brat’s spindled finger to gauge its certain plumpness – the nearsighted hag grew suspicious. She groped between the bars with a gnarled claw, cooed as she was able, as to an errant pet, finally seizing upon a frayed woolen stocking, a chubby ankle, dragging it to her across the burred floor of the dirty cage. Suppertime, she sighed, as she caressed the dumpling flesh between her callused paws. The oven would be lit. The girl was called to clean his face, to mend and tuck his shirttail, to take his tender photograph: portrait of a memorable meal.

Bird Seven Revised: My Friend Robin is Right

My friend Robin was right, I think (see her Feb 19 comment on the original post -- I can't make it link here). I struggled with this part in the initial writing, was originally going to stop after "...so I can miss you," but it seemed to make the end come too abruptly. Now I see I could have stopped shorter, trusted the reader more. Thanks, Robin.

Valentine for the Runaway Man

Once, in the kitchen, he was standing at the sink, sleeves rolled, suds flying, scrubbing the paella pan, and she felt it coming on -- the terrible need to chase him away. This became a game. She stole up behind, sockfeet padding percussively in place, clawed hands poised like a hungry bear, a cartoon monster, a lunatic crab. "What are you doing?" he asked, and she answered, "I'm chasing you, of course. You've just forgotten to run away." "You're crazy," he laughed. "Please," she insisted, "Run away."

I promise, my love, that one day, I will run away for you.

---

Valentine for the Runaway Man

Once, in the kitchen, he was standing
at the sink, sleeves rolled, suds flying,
scrubbing the paella pan,
and she felt it coming on --
the terrible need to chase him away.

This became a game. She stole up behind,
sockfeet padding percussively in place,
clawed hands poised like a hungry bear,
a cartoon monster, a lunatic crab.

"What are you doing?" he asked,
and she answered, "I'm chasing you,
of course. You've just forgotten to run away."
"You're crazy," he laughed. "Please,"
she insisted, "Run away."

I promise, my love, that one day,
I will run away for you.

Bird Seven: Running from Camera (a Valentine)

Bird Seven is the result of a collision between Poetry Thursday (Idea = Prose Poem) and something my friend Tim linked to his blog, namely, this guy who takes photos of himself running away from his camera. I am absolutely drawn to the idea of exploring variations of a simple premise. I am also reminded again of an idea from Understanding Comics -- these photos straddle the balance between unique and universal beautifully... As a "reader," I can simultaneously view him as a specific individual and easily put myself in the photo. I love it.

So here's a prose poem (I think).

Valentine for the Runaway Man

Once, in the kitchen, he was standing at the sink, sleeves rolled, suds flying, scrubbing the paella pan, and she felt it coming on -- the terrible need to chase him away. This became a game. She stole up behind, sockfeet padding percussively in place, clawed hands poised like a hungry bear, a cartoon monster, a lunatic crab. "What are you doing?" he asked, and she answered, "I'm chasing you, of course. You've just forgotten to run away." "You're crazy," he laughed. "Please," she insisted, "Run away. Run away so I can miss you. Run away so I can feel for a moment how it would be if you weren't here."

I promise, my love, that one day, I will run away for you.

---

Here's the not-prose version. (Just want to state for the record that I wrote the prose/paragraph version first, and added these line-breaks after). Same words, same order, but I like this much better. Guess I'm not a prose-poem gal.

Valentine for the Runaway Man

Once, in the kitchen, he was standing
at the sink, sleeves rolled, suds flying,
scrubbing the paella pan,
and she felt it coming on --
the terrible need to chase him away.

This became a game. She stole up behind,
sockfeet padding percussively in place,
clawed hands poised like a hungry bear,
a cartoon monster, a lunatic crab.

"What are you doing?" he asked,
and she answered, "I'm chasing you,
of course. You've just forgotten to run away."

"You're crazy," he laughed. "Please,"
she insisted, "Run away. Run away
so I can miss you. Run away so I can feel
for a moment how it would be
if you weren't here."

I promise, my love, that one day,
I will run away for you.

Birds Four, Five, Six: Other People's Photos (Redux)

My initial Flickr experiment proved so worthwhile that I can't think of anything I'd rather do than explore more of the same. I have been mired in inertia for a week now, trying to come up with a shiny new bird, but the last one simply will not be denied a few feathered companions. And I do make the rules.

I am once again grateful for the amazing and generous photographers out there (each of whom has given me permission to use his or her photo)...

Photo by Dragonballyee	A man’s consciousness (generally) will rest upon the scarcity of skirt, estimate the taut geometry of thigh emerging and receding with each swaying stride. A woman may be most inclined to weigh the ass against her own – a pair of clefted cantaloupes see-sawing in imagined palms. And love, perhaps, (or hate) the bag (or shoes). A child will wonder mainly at the diamonds: burn to press his flesh against the rust-cool, gritty grid; to sear a moment’s memory; to wear (to write) the pattern as it walks away.
	Ramona had once imagined that years of marriage, the persistent, gentle sculpturing of everyday contact – hell, some sort of amygdalar survival trigger – would re-shape Richard’s extraordinary talent for picking the wrong time to do just about everything. Ha! Photo by Fonsico
Photo by Kandykorn	Stella knows this: A shopping cart conveys a world. A corner market is a star. Commence with the obvious cargo: bananas and oatmeal, Maalox and milk, waxed paper, pudding, and peas. But wheels matter most, wheels threading each day’s track, handle humming with the dissonant clack of sidewalk seams – a satellite signal reminding Stella’s body to move, maintain its orbit, seek bananas in a universe grown small.
Photo by CMRowell	She wore away one whisper at a time receding until skin unwrapped and sinew unlaced and bones unknit and everything everything gaped until unknowing enveloped a single sleeping seed whorled into a pomegranate planet.
Photo by DigiMom13	You are eight and your playground physics are these: cementing the fate of your palms and knees, you center your hips – a body at rest, push yourself off with solid-heeled thrust, build into a fury of pump-and-lean, kick at the sky in the blurred between, fueling the pendulum forward-and-back, expanding your arc until the chains go slack and your body flings free from its everyday scheme – opens wide to give wing to the flying dream.

Bird Three: Other People's Photos

I have been trawling the Flickr site recently and noticed, being the word-obsessive that I am, that a lot of pictures, though tagged, are left title/captionless... It got me thinking about how the title of an artwork can really influence how you interpret it, and also how the juxtaposition of words and images affects meaning.

A good reader/viewer always engages actively with a text, film, painting... participating in the making of meaning. Thus, it's insulting when a director, painter or storyteller gives the reader too much -- if you've no work to do, no effort of understanding to put forth, then there's no motivation to connect, no payoff... but if you are given too little, and can't find a way "in," a way to connect, that's no good either -- the artist has to seek the balance between... Scott McLeod beautifully explains this idea I am butchering in Understanding Comics (A book everyone with any imagination should read).

I have fairly well-developed reading/viewing muscles, as well as a tendency to imbue images, people, and objects with backstory. Such projection is a fundamental human trait. Brain researchers (I can't remember where I heard this -- I think maybe on an episode of NOVA) believe that the capacity for empathy is one of the most powerful human evolutionary traits. Maybe other people don't tend to extend it beyond humans and animals as much as I...

Anyway, back to Flickr, I stumbled on this picture, randomly, and was tickled by the caption. It made me like the photographer. It's sort of weird that the social web allows us to become routine, often invited, voyeurs into other people's lives, thoughts, creations. I know, and believe in the incredible potential of the real connections, extensions, creative leaps and communities that are made in this shared digital landscape, but I also believe that the sheer mathematics of it all means that we consume (view, read, listen, watch) way more than we (most of us, anyway) ever actively respond to.

Which leads me to my third bird... in which I poem-caption a few of Other People's Photos...

I began with a full-text search for "IMG" plus "kids" and then "IMG" plus "people." I have also gotten permission from each of the photographers to use their photos for this exercise (Thank you!).

	Cyrus was a nomad in his bones; Our need to hold him could not hold him still. We used to joke that he was born wearing wheels -- called him our "hummingbird boy," (or, "Sharkbaby," during ornery times); We gave him what we could for the journey; set him loose because there was no other way. Photo by Volkswitt
Photo by Pink Sherbet	At five, you never named your aches, but felt. Now silent, now with wailing, flailing, wrenching, spouting forth, unconscious swell – a spell too vast to be contained – you rained, would not be reined, remained submerged where loss collected, rant and tantrum intersected, made a mess, lived your distress with five's great knowing, wove your being through its core and wore it threadbare, felt it more. At five, you breathed it fresh – oh, surely, purely, how you held on tight and wept, then, dreamless, slept.
	I am never myself. I have a hundred selves. When you see me, notice the aching curve of eyelid, nostril, lip and chin, jawline and neckline, slipaway braid. Linger at my shoulder and apprehend this: I curve toward a self I have yet to invent. Photo by Ex.Libris
Photo by Gus is a Great Name	These tragic feet, these sugared doughnuts, these tender filthy piggies, these criss-crossed cuddlers, these mute messengers, these expectant soles, these compass needles, these leathered prayers, these hopeful feet.