17 syllables : a thousand words – Photography and Haiku Exhibit @ The Chapel – May 14th, 2011

photographer writes
haiku; those one thousand words
can be such a blab

I am thankful to have been able to show my work in some places which are pretty special to me, and The Chapel certainly qualifies as one of those. I have wanted to exhibit here ever since I saw the gallery space and attended some concerts in the beautiful chapel area.

This time around, I am also going to be stepping out a bit, and presenting some haiku along with the images. The relationships between the haiku and images will not be one to one correlations, but, rather, hopefully they will complement and speak to one another, as I hope they do on this blog. I am hoping to facilitate some in-gallery haiku writing by exhibit attendees, too – totally voluntary I assure you 🙂

I am also excited to feature two large signature pieces – a haiku piece which is being produced by calligrapher Joanne Kluba of Paper Birds and my first gallery wrapped canvas. You will just have to come to the show to see which haiku and image get the honors. Of course, there will be a number of other framed pieces of images and haiku which you can view and/or purchase as well.

Also, The Chapel will very graciously be providing refreshments. It should be a lovely night.

If nothing else, perhaps you can get a hold of one of the lovely promo postcards which my friend Carrie Jones is designing for the night. I hope to see you there!


The Sun Sets on “Nature is Never Spent”

Well, this evening, with a few simple snips of fishing filament, I will be taking down “Nature is Never Spent” from Meshuggah.

Thank you to all who visited. Even though I did not visit Meshuggah much during the month it was up as a customer, it was very nice to know as I drove by or contemplated friends sitting there that the exhibit was up around them.

Oh, and if you bought a picture, it should be yours in a very short amount of time. Thank you.


THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.