In Photography, Writing

I was, briefly an artist, past my prime. Now, I am not sure what I am or if I am. But, once, I was. Perhaps I am never to be again. This image was never printed way back when and perhaps that was for the best. Nothing terribly wrong here, but the artist inside said it was not fit to print, back when such issues mattered. Hours in the dark room. Toxic chemicals filling the nostrils, darkness filling the room, the magic and mystery of negative to positive image on a formerly blank sheet of paper.  The loneliness of the waiting. The trial and error and error and error and error and acceptable image. The thought that 8×10 wasn’t enough. Larger prints. More expense. More trial. More error. Hours gone by. Had the sun set? When did I eat last? Was it dinner? Is dinner a thing? More prints will solve that. Days gone. Images made. Not this one. The artist in me moved on. The me that is me often wonders and questions the me that was me. The me that was, briefly an artist, past his prime.


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