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The Photographer

The Photographer

I wonder what it means that I like to take pictures of the rain. Since childhood I have been in love with rain. There is a belief that would suggest some sort of cruel irony is at play, considering how I love the rain and how my parents died. There are connections we might look for or feel we need. Think about a photograph in which a screen door is collapsing. The frame is twisting. The wire mesh is thin and torn. Anyone or even the wind could walk through it or push the door down, but still it hangs by a single chain or by a single thread of wire. Think about that image. Some old homeplace with a weak screen door. We might find the resistance of a wire or chain futile, but there is still resistance. The falling and the resistance then are necessarily linked. I believe they are of consequence, and most people believe that. That’s how we want to see things. In the same way we want to recognize the thinnest strings, or whatever we need to picture, between ourselves and what we think matters, what we think is profound. Seldom is coincidence enough of an answer for us. It can be too inconsequential, and so we want there to be something more. When I started taking pictures I wanted to take pictures of the rain and of the sky and of clouds. And this came before my parents were taken. I keep asking myself what it is I want to see. It’s what I ask when I compose a photograph. Surely we make choices, but then sometimes I see some connection so remarkable that there is no longer choice but explanation. We want so much. We want so much for things to be.

From the play, The sun is in the West.