September 2, 1997
After reading "Manual Photography: Hopkins, Ruskin, and Victorian Drawing," I was reminded of "the importance of personal 'attention and toil' in our appreciation of nature" (Bump 34). What I found most interesting was the differences between drawing and photography. Being a consumer in this fast-paced world, I often forget to look at things and to really observe the beautiful aspects of nature that I enjoy so much.
I recently spent six weeks in Europe with my camera ready in hand. I visited the breathtaking gardens of Anne Hathaway's cottage, and what did I do? I snapped a quick picture and went on my way, thinking I would forever capture the essence of the flowers through the artificial lens of my camera. I was wrong. I continued snapping my pictures as I wandered through Avebury, Blenheim Palace and its Pleasure Gardens, Bath, and Paris's famous parks. After reading this article, I regret not taking out the time, as others did, to sit and observe what the natural beauty the world had to offer. I look back at the pictures I took and feel somewhat indifferent to them. I have no personal connection to the subject of my photographs; I have no response. It is not even the fact that I took photographs that disturbs me as much as that I did not take out any time to "long-look."
On my way to the bus stop the other afternoon, I passed by the East Mall fountain on campus and decided to take some time to watch the water. I just sat and watched. I decided to jot down how I felt and how the water looked to me at that particular time. Because my artistic capabilities do not include the realm of water, i.e. I cannot draw water, I decided to write a poem instead.
Fall and Spring
The water falls together
like saran wrap
hitting the pooldown below
it forms a line of foam like milk
left on an upper lip;
a chain of water mountains is
surrounded by mutant seashells tied into a necklace.
The air is a rolling pin
the water cookie dough
dough of melted marbles as dim
as the lights of a movie theatre
a few minutes before showtime.
The sheets are now broken
like an old attic window;
they spurt out of the wall
that holds them back
like suicidal teenagers high
on death
they jump into a sea that moves like hair
on the back of a scared cat,
into a sea of vomit green
it's no longer even or smooth,
but patchy
like a cheap crocodile handbag.
It all starts from the top,
from fountains of dancing amoebas,
a neverending string
of paper dolls.
A circle of angelic girls,
long, flowy hair
tossed about while playing ring around the rosy.
They are dancing
on a bed of marshmallows,
a pile of unworn socks
and their hair keeps growing
into the pool down below.
SYCAMORE
As most trees do, the sycamore has a large, round trunk. It seems larger than most though. It has no "arms" until about 9 feet up from the ground where a right arm extends horizontally. Looking upward, more and more arms start to extend in all directions, perhaps shaking hands with one another. It looks like a hydra. It appears that the higher up the arm, the more white it is, probably because of its greater exposure to the weather. It sheds it bark as we shed cells. It looks about due for an exfoliation (ritual scrubbing of the body to shed dead cells - or in this case bark. But doesn't "exfoliation" refer to the leaves too?)
The leaves are serrated like a maple leaf's. They vary from green to yellow, with some dead ones still hanging on. When I was drawing, I tried to focus on the trunk and branches as an outline. Then I looked at the leaf individually, gradually turning to the leaves as a mass of green.