Riding That Train . . .

There is so much I want to share in this space with all of you good people out there . . . most days I hardly know where to start. It all seems urgent, it all clamors for attention on the screen and in the corners of my cluttered mind . . . I can only thank you for bearing with me as this show unfolds in its haphazard manner . . .
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When I came down from the top of the tower in Paris there a few days after Christmas, I boarded a train to the West, and for the next four hours read a book about WWI and listened to music while watching the rolling hills slide by the train windows. But at a couple of spots I couldn't resist getting the camera out, very self-consciously in the confines of the train wagon, and while pretending to shoot out the window, I was actually interested in the window itself, or the reflections in it. Reflections of the interior overlaying the exterior on a platform somewhere in Brittany. Especially a father and his son. The boy was staring out the window, obviously in a dream . . . something quietly beautiful to me appeared there, perhaps remembering something from my own childhood . . .
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