Fragments

As always, you have lovely ideas embedded within your photographs, your own fragments of Life which you wish to preserve.  The pieces of life, the fragmented memories that have managed to stay with you close to the surface and avoid being burned away all together, are aligned perfectly along the center of the subject's arm, as if a lyrical vein pumping the embers of inspiration through the subjects blood and flowing out in an incandescent glow, the product of inspiration being inspiring art.  These experiences, all these things which have forged you as if through the flaming forges of Time, you have appropriately represented as charred pieces of sheet music, perhaps the score to the uncertainties of Life gradually being revealed as the orchestra of Fate plays out your own.  As if in synchronization with this metaphor, the subject's graceful figures seem to be playing these events, these fragmented notes from the compositional enigma of Life, on a sort of invisible violin, beginning to form a unique song from those measures and melodies which replay themselves in the subject's head.  When I view this photograph, I see a violinist, an artist's mind akin to a puzzle, playing in the grander orchestra of Fate, each pizzicotto pluck a hand plucking a shard of memory from a kindling desolation and adding it to the artist's own mosaic, in hopes of finding his or herself in it.