Life itself is not the reality. We are the ones who put life into stones and pebbles.

-Fredrick Sommer

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Since my adolescence I have found photography fascinating.  With a machine held in one’s hand, it is possible to make an image of the world of which we participate, a freeze-frame depiction.  I felt the enchantment, to hold in my hand a black and white photo of a pair of drag racers at the moment of leaving the starting line, recollecting a mechanical scream of engines, the aroma of burning rubber against asphalt, the sensation of adrenaline rush for the drivers and spectators.  And of anything that one desires to photograph, the photographer bears witness – “this is life.” 

The camera indicates, points to what some have suspected, and a few have said out loud,  Homo sapiens invest with “life,” everything within their circle of care.  To-pay-attention is to care, to invest any and everything from pebbles, to a scarlet beebalm blossom, to an adolescents visit to the race track, camera in hand, — with passion. 

What is loved is what lives.

* A felt overwhelming awe upon contemplating a mystery