so far this month of October belong to 'time'. I know this because
on the back of the photograph there is a date. It is some other part
of me that recalls the actual objects themselves. In this other part
of recollection there is less precision.
My mind recalls the first of these two photographs. My back was to
the Atlantic Ocean. I could smell beach and hear that awful noise
young people make when they are near waves and determined to demonstrate
happiness. My own purpose was to make certain that gusts and breeze
from the ocean did not reduce those eleven little vases to shards, and dissuade
the drunken from touching them.
The artist who made
the objects depicted in these photographs, had I am certain other
When the first little vase sold, my job
was to wrap it politely in tissue paper, place it into a peach colored bag
and hand it across to its new owner, while the artist herself struggled with
calculating sales tax and issuing change in a manner suggesting confidence.
In following years this was to become an
ordinary enough moment, but after that first sale both the artist and I
found it necessary to take deep breaths to keep from trembling.
I could call these images from this month of
October, 'early work'. But this would be an error in my relationship
with language, because in my understanding of 'being', time is a quality,
not a line.