Distance.

The skies hold Orion

three stars of

equal distance apart

the necks bend

unnaturally

for a glimpse

moon illuminated faces

on tip toes while

he listens for breath

sure and slow

with each inhale

pulled closer

falling fast

in reckless infatuation

for she is love

held at a distance

in three glimmers of light.

Dan Estabrook.

"There will always be sadness and humor in our struggle to find meaning."
-Dan Estabrook

Yesterday I sat in the auditorium of the Art Institute of Boston and listened to Dan Estabrook speak. He skipped high school, went straight to Harvard where he studied alternative photographic processing with my current professor Christopher James, and is now one of the premiere artists in the country. His work is a mixture of alternatively processed images with processes like gum bichromate layered with drawing, sewing, and anything else he can get his hands on. I have had something like an artistic block the past few weeks and listening to this man talk unlocked something in my clouded brain. I suddenly realized how afraid I am to play and work slowly with one topic, to focus and really demand that topic to speak. All the material is in my head, it is at the "source" as Dan would call it, and I have to trust that from it I can create. Despite being on the brink of total, emotional exhaustion, I haven't even begun to push the boundaries with my art. There is a lifetime's worth of material in my head and on the pages of my journals. Now it's time to trust myself and create.

A few samples of his work, for more go to danestabrook.com

Twin Souls...stream of consciousness.

...to know that you can never get too lost, never be too broken, that the soul can always be saved, that the earth will always call us home and retain our soul and our memories in its soil, binding the wheat and roots with our hearts and minds, speaking to the innermost depths of our being, telling us to distinguish one headlight from three, to put away the gun, come out of the locked room and kneel before the creator, the beholder, the father, vulnerable and naked, begging for forgiveness, for vision, standing beneath the great vast Oklahoma sky waiting for rain, soul screaming out to the heavens let it rain, open up and pour, soak me down to the bone, the raw material of my existence and free me from this prison, entangle my feet in these roots, my hair in this wind and let the father call me home, call me home papa, call me home.

Breakthrough in Room 414.

She has no other way but this
alone in her precious room
with the ticking hands of her watch
and the steady rhythm of breath.

A hell she has chosen
and willingly accepts
that threatens to burn her alive
as fists pound at the locked door
desperate to rescue that which is already lost.

A pile of ashes from which she will rise
the barefoot midwestern maiden
cradling her soul in her arms
a fragile being held together
with red thread and rusty needle.

It quietly sobs as all children do
for the arms of their creator
and the vision given
by the wind and the rain.