In the oppressive drought of an extended heat wave, everything is parched. The leaves in the stale breeze are as percussive as they’d be in late August. The return of the crows add a bluesy accompaniment. I wonder about my well, and if I should peer into it and risk having my worries validated. I wonder what I’ll find if I train my camera on the conventionally ugly things invading the cracked, hard earth of my garden. I know of course, from motherhood, that all beings belong – all are beautiful. The prickly things in Gallery, their secret grace shared in Reading Room, simply require a closer look.
Antonine Maillet wrote, “On cherche plutot à transformer l’agate en pierre précieuse en apprenant à la regarder avec l’amour.”