Returning

Becan, Yucatan Mexico, Anna Peach 2012

I speak about the trials of returning as often as I speak of the emotional pull of  leaving.  I seem to be forever in the grip of one of these two distinct poles.  We often say that to return is to go back to the comforts of what we know, but with all of the changes that we undergo while away, I find myself returning as a dramatically changed person that has more than a little trouble trying to fit back into the rushing tides of pedestrians.  With that, I view my environs with new perspectives, and often a great deal of confusion as I try to smush myself into the way things were.  As is the case with my return to New York City.  I was barely circling above Laguardia airport before the city pulled at me.  I had undergone a transformation by living very closely to the land in a foreign country for several months, and now the grey sprawl again took over my life.  It was never a very comfortable fit for me in our nation's largest city, but I continue to try regardless.

As I sat in the glare of the mid afternoon sun, I asked myself, "what in the hell am I doing?" while we were all supposed to be seeking out the Freedom Tower off the left of the plane.  And so I  begin the return process.  It sounds bleak, and  unfortunately it certainly was as bad as it sounds.  It opened up the can of worms that we all try to avoid discussing, that being the "why do we make the living choices that we make" question that is often so very hard to answer.  Why do we continue to return to places or people that are not such a great fit?  Why do we go to great lengths to justify the reasons for not living to our fullest potential.  It is a dangerous question to raise in the Big Apple, for most people cling to the city using the same justifications that we use to justify remaining in a failing romantic relationship.  Often the answer is as simple as we have invested far too much time into a situation that we thought would eventually pay off.  It hasn't yet, but yet with our heads still barely above water, it seems more tempting and far easier to stay put in the lackluster situation than to forge ahead into the unknown.  When you break it down to the simple truth that change is scary, it seems nothing short of cowardly to sell ourselves short.

With that being said, I am neck deep in change as I write.  For I couldn't very well write on the subject without at the very least guinea pigging myself to the hilt.  What will come of this?  I am not sure, but the very simple fact that I am writing about it seems to show that I am already in a better place for it. 

Aquatic

My Waikiki photographs. Working around the idea that the sea has a memory of its own experience.

A Photographer Without Sight

I am remembering my dreams more than I used to, and with the recent move that felt more like an evacuation the dreams are carried into my days. I have been haunted by leaving Hawaii in much the same way I was haunted while I was there. Dreams often become the starting point of my art, but more so the daydreams than those from the night. Most of my recent dreams involve my former students, animals I rescued or references to my family home being lifted and moved to another place, which unfortunately happened. They are a scramble of references to home and identity with a good dose of guilt thrown in. Abandonment plays a key role almost nightly. Last night’s dream is no exception with the appearance of a friend who is a symbol of home. We stood in a stark empty white room face to face with my friend’s eyes covered with a blindfold. His hands searched my face like a bind man would, recognizing me by touch.

I have been identified like that when I return to one particular island off the coast of Ireland. A fair amount of my early inspiration for photography came from this island man that could not see, as well as my own Mother who woke to find she had lost her sight in her sleep and then months later woke to find it had returned. I remember trying to explain my photography to this islander as well as trying to explain to my Mother why I chose to be a visual artist when she lost her sight. I am not sure which was easier, explaining sight to someone who has never had it, or explaining why you choose to see because you may not always have it. What I found through conversations with this islander was that we shared a love of the same dangerous places that very few others bothered to hike to. It was desolate and windy, and chances are you would fall at least once regardless of your sight. Your leg would be caught in deep crevices that cross cut the land and each time you wondered if you would free yourself before nightfall. The experience was the same for both of us.

The last time I was in Ireland I traveled out to this place even though I had little more than one day to spent there. I needed to be there, to reconnect in some way with the stones, the cliffs, something that was still there no matter how many months I had stayed. I talked for a few moments with some of the residents, before noticing a man with two dogs walking by his side, one a new guide dog fresh from training and the other the dear guiding friend from the past now retired. I wanted to yell out, but yelling wasn’t really appropriate in this place of silence, so I simply stood there and watched him turn to face me from the bottom of the hill and nod.

My friend in the dream probably sees more than anyone I have ever met. My mind is so filled with his images that sometimes I confuse them for my own. I see them on my wall or in books or upon my desk and for I split second I think it is my experience, and in a way it is. That is why we are interested in art and creativity in the first place. So why is it that in my dream he is without the sense that guides him, and why am I the one to have presumably taken it from him, although temporarily. Maybe it serves to balance, to redirect like a lightning rod or a ground to ensure safety.