I am not a photographer. I have never claimed to be such. I am a starving artist. A writer of thoughts. An unusual suspect of sorts. But not a photographer. Or at least  not JUST a photographer. In fact I feel so strongly about this that if I were in a crowded room consisting of a variety of creative persons and we were asked to divide the room with photographers on one side and sculptures, painters, and dancers on the other other, I would not hesitate for one moment in joining the latter. In my humble opinion a photographer is some one who captures a moment through an image. An artist is some one who see the potential in the moment and possesses the passion to see image into completion. A vision fulfilled. Camille Pissarro, an early french impressionist painter, once said “Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.” And even Picasso said “What do you think an artist is? An imbecile who has only his eyes if he is a painter, or his ears if he is a musician, or a lyre at every level of his heart if he is a poet, or, if he is merely a boxer, only his muscle? On the contrary, he is at the same time a political being, constantly alert to the heartrending, burning, or happy events in the world, molding himself in their likeness.” I am not a photographer. I am a painter. I do not shoot from lists. I dance. When the shutter is released and the moment frozen, the real work is just beginning. And to me, that’s the best part.

“Summer’s Progression”

The end.