November 8, 2018

When Mums Die  ©Tracey Grumbach

Dear Driftwood,

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,

Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams

And our desires.

-Wallace Stevens

I came across this poem the other day and I was so struck with how well it fit with this digital art piece I was creating at the time. So many people just don't get why I enjoy taking pictures of dying or dead flowers. They think I am strange and perhaps I am. But, when I read these lines from the poem "Sunday Morning" by Wallace Stevens, it occurred to me just how much beauty I see in the downtrodden, the history, the life-well-spent, the dying. The beauty isn't always about when something is at its aesthetic peak. Instead, I find the beauty in the story and history of the flower, which is only revealed in the dying process. 

That reminds me of a conversation I had the other day. After my iPhone photography class, I sat talking with one of my students, a woman in her senior years. We were talking about editing portraits and how friends her age didn't want portraits of themselves anymore because they didn't like to see themselves with wrinkles, sags, and age spots. While I totally understood what she was saying and why people would be sensitive about having a portrait done at an older age, it made me sad. I told her that I thought the beauty of portrait of an older person is the lines, the spots, and the sags. The beauty is in the story that unfolds from those wrinkles-not the tightness and flawlessness of the skin. I love black and white portraiture of older people for that very reason. She was happy to disagree with me and tell me I only felt that way because I was only 46 and that I would feel differently when I am her age. But will I? Perhaps she is right, perhaps she isn't. Only time will tell how I feel about myself as I age but for now I do know that I absolutely adore images of older people.

Remember that time, Driftwood, that I bought an old potting table that was used in someone's barn and used it as my kitchen table (after cleaning it up,  of course). You always teased me about that table and would ask me if I got it out of a junk yard. Well, twenty years later I still have that table, crooked leg and all, in my art studio. It is the history of that table, the holes, the hammer marks, the chipping paint, that make it beautiful to me and I still use it today. 

Ok, so maybe I am strange for loving beat up, old, imperfect things. Or maybe I am just sentimental and see the value in history and stories. Who knows.

Well, goodbye for now. I will write again soon. All the mums are beginning to die off here and winter is knocking. Until next time...

Love,

Me