their own, in poetry as elsewhere.
We do not hesitate, in poetry,
to yield ourselves to the unreal,
when it is possible to
yield ourselves."
- Wallace Stevens (1879 - 1955)
Photographer's note. There is an amusing story behind this image, which I took with my iPhone yesterday after my wife and eldest son and I finished dinner at a local Nepalese restaurant. As we were waiting for the bill to arrive, I was transfixed by what looked like - to my eye, anyway - a mountainous dune-like vista (such as we had recently seen during our visit to Death Valley, CA). In "reality" this is nothing but a three foot section of wall near the ceiling, with the play of light owing itself to some light fixtures on the ceiling itself (which I cropped out of the image you see above). The "amusing" part is that while I was transfixed by the real-but-unreal dunes (and took a few loooong moments, as I usually do, to get the composition just right), our waiter had politely waiting by our table, equally transfixed by my fascination with what - to him - was nothing but peeling paint on a wall that needed repair! Indeed, when I was finished and approached our table to sit back down, I heard the tail end of a conversation that ensued behind my back between our waiter and my wife. My wife was explaining (as she has done countless times before in similar scenarios) that I "see the world a bit differently," even as our waiter kept apologizing for not having yet "fixed" the wall. Light, shadow, texture, reflection, paint, wall in need of repair, or dunes in the desert, ... which of these are "real" and which imagined? And what of the infinite other Borgesian worlds left unperceived and unexplored? Seeing the world differently, indeed 😊
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