June 22, 2011
The studio dog absolutely doesn’t care about anything but love.
He loves masking tape, and frequently chews my work prints. But he definitely doesn’t care about the world of ideas.
He loves pieces of bananas hidden in a bag behind my cameras. But distant from his heart are the vagaries of human self-expression, or the artist’s anguish of failures and half-starts. A day in the studio that involves sunshine and naps is a good day, and all the rest is midrash: the triumphs of a well-wrought line inconsequential.
The studio dog only cares about love, and absolutely nothing else.
Yet now I know: the studio dog reads my poetry when I leave the room.
How did I misunderstand him so completely?
He cares about many things, and all the difference faces of the cliff called love.