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The longer I pursue photography, the more I am convinced that is it too ephemeral to capture. It is a fleeting thing, an idea, really, as we attempt to capture light with a butterfly net, all the while being enraptured by the shadows they make on the ground beneath our feet. There are those who plod away at it, chiseling photos from the stone of their concrete imaginations, and shoveling the banal, monochrome prints in our faces as though they were stone effigies for us to worship.
Their bated breath sickens me.
But there are also poets among us, those who understand that fairies cannot be captured and neither can life. These silly few traipse after life with their nets and brooms, sweeping up all the dust it leaves behind into a glowing, rainbow of detritus, and then whip out a camera or two to make photos not of the…
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