I just returned from summer travels. We hit London, Southern Italy and Hungary. If you’ve followed along with me over the years, you know that travel photography is a big part of what I love to do — not for a living but simply because my grandfather did it, because I grew up on the images of National Geographic and Life Magazine and because, in the end, these family times together are really the juice of life. And where I feel most alive. Such is the beauty of travel.
I gathered up some notes and images from the last three weeks. In fact, the hardest part of traveling for me is not writing. Writing is how I reconcile the fragments of my thoughts. The lack of it has created a pooling effect; a large, filled basin of various concentrations. At some point, the individual ideas give way and the larger concoction becomes the only thing to write about.
And so this is about emotions.
Emotions are unpredictable and unpredictability is discomfort. We do a lot of work to try to avoid emotions, but there is no exorcism. If anything, our emotions are our only real truth. Life is the internal mess, really. The ways we contort ourselves to avoid it, is the lie.
And what does that have to do with photography or art?
Everything, I suppose.
