When I look at this photograph coldly (utterly detached), this is what I come away with:
• no, it ain't sexy
• no, it ain't no sweet, no cliché and no aww-so-hallmark-cutie
• no, it ain't no sentiment, no commodity (as a popular print for sale), no easy genre.
What it is, without having to argue a difficult point, is an image
• which embellishes nothing, especially no aesthetic preference, no concept or notion
• which alludes not, suggests not and makes no reference to any thing or idea outside of itself
• which is what it is without pretense, claims to meaning or symbolist properties
There is, decidedly, nothing personally expressive about such an image. There is no message, no hint or complaint, no personal laundry. The author remains appropriately invisible behind the abstraction, the mystery of objects captured here, which are trouvée, found and serve not as means for an intended purpose or effect outside of one that existed naturally and prior to being photographed.
What we have here is a mystery, an esoteric document, if you like, which not only invites us, as viewers, to study it but which, probably, mystified its author in the first place, prompting the photograph.
A photo such as this, I believe, should not conform to any set notions of composition/tastes/appetites and technical conventions that apply to so much we consume and try to recreate. It should instead be executed according to its own dictates, so that we may be able to discover things that are new, uncharted or simply phenomenal, no matter how modest a thing it may appear to be. This has been done here, superbly, and without any traceable interference of ego, as far as I can see, and this, my people, is why I feel