I came upon this anthill today near the Plum Tree Grove. Thousands of ants scurrying to and fro, mandibles munching away on what remains of a skull.
It was ironic for me, to watch them moving at full tilt, while I try desperately to gear down, precisely so that I can better appreciate moments such as this.
It’s not easy, letting go of the insatiable chattering in my head about concepts, techniques and materials. When not at PCEI, I look constantly for advice and inspiration wherever I can find it. Today’s find: Barry Lopez in Home Ground: Language for an American Landscape.
To hear the unembodied call of a place, that numinous voice, one has to wait for it to speak through the harmony of its features—the soughing of the wind across it, its upward reach against a clear night sky, its fragrance after a rain. One must wait for the moment when the thing—the hill, the tarn, the lunette, the kiss tank, the caliche flat, the bajada—ceases to be a thing and becomes something that knows we are there.