She is there and I am here, imagining each other beyond the camera that is always there between us.
She is real and I am real, but in the moment abstracted. I whisper directions yet somehow she hears though it is no longer her I speak to but the image that is there somewhere inside the camera.
And I care for her, I care for her in a way I can not name, not in a physical way, not as a man cares for a woman but in a way that seems somehow more important, as an artist cares for art though those terms seem too small and the thing that I care for and the thing that I am I have no words to describe.
We enter the room and it is always the same, the same walls, the same carpet, the same image we are trying to create, a perfect one-sixtieth of a second. It is as real as we are and we search for it as one searches the darkness of a field with only the light of a single candle, our hand cupped about the flame against a wind that blows, a wind that carries the words and thoughts of others trying to define the thing we search for.
Words and Image, Reverend Bobby Anger