Often
I can connect my favorite, and mostly my strongest, images directly
to my past. I grew up next to a pond that froze in the winter to become
the neighborhood ice rink. The memories of daytime hockey games, hot
chocolate next to the fire, and cold moonlit nights on the ice are pure
and clear. The look and moods of ice are as endless as clouds or waves.
On the first day that the ice was thick enough to skate on, and if it
was the good stuff, or black ice as we called it, and before I'd carve
out my first blade mark, I'd get down on my belly and stare down into
a frozen world of visual
dreams. This scene, with frozen bubbles, cracks, stones, and still,
subtle color, is from those dreams.
