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The Hidden World of the Nearby

Looking Here And There

A delay, of sorts.

I began photographing with a view camera in 1974. The earliest images in this collection are from 1977. A string of visits to several national parks in the west (Brice, Canyonlands, Arches, plus two weeks in Alaska) yielded a handfull of images. What I discovered is that you had to visit often and be able to pick the weather.

I so often happens, I was learning what not to do, although.

I got some good images in the next few years, but it wasn’t until AI started paying attention to what I was driving by and in 1981 I discovered the Mass Pike, also know as I-90. It’s the longest Interstate (Logan Airport to Seattle) but a few miles west of Boston are some overlooks where valleys were filled. Ironically I was told that the fill came from decapping The Mountain where Bose is now located. The photos had to be made from the guardrail in the breakdown lane.

For some reaon in my 80th year I started to write poetry.

I was spooked by the idea of shooting on the other side of the guardrail, with rush hour traffic uncomfortably close by. But I was also spooked, in a way, by what I was seeing. I found that the spring blossoming of trees in a New England valley mimiked fall color, as different species began to bud. A The spring trees gallery shows from two spots on the Pike and from a few other places.

Spring Flowers

I Want to See The Trees...

I want to see the trees like this, I want to see the trees—

birds do it, and flying insects too but only artists

and those stranded in the breakdown lane

will see the canopy of the tree as the bees and I do,

and get police curiousity and protection, too.

But conversation I did not expect.

However, troopers are expected to inquire when

an odd spectator was not by the Authority hired.

What are you doing he growls?

Why making a photograh I mumered.

Of what? He was clearly puzzled.

Of the trees I said.

He paused— and stared at this grand valley

and said not a word.

He just drove away, to his accustomed work.

A canopy is the way to see a tree, not from the ground

where its glory hides, but as its buds flower

it gives a thrill for its mass of color from crimson to silver.

Each spring its blossoms turn to leaves in congregation that

if we are of suitable mind, will bring a worship of creation.

Trees do not just exalt in sunlight and rain,

they breath for us,

so the sea of carbon becomes the sire of all that grows,

and for our lungs and spirits it provides, and —

Oh! a tree with the spirit of Van Gogh.

My god...I cannot tell you of the glow in me to see

from all places The Pike!, and sitting on a steel rail

with Boston’s morning business roaring by a photograph

now forever in a museum. What fortune to find hidden

so nearby. I had never thought to look.

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