Good news. Wait no. Great fucking news.

I met with Frédéric, the owner of the Salon, and after showing him a portfolio of my pictures, he agreed to let me have an exhibit in the next show in February.

As this wasn’t only his art gallery but his house as well, I offered to let him make the decision after seeing my completed work. He told me there was no need, as he trusted me based on what he had seen in my portfolio, which I felt was a very nice compliment.

As artists (and I use this in the loosest sense of the word to describe myself), we’re very different. I told him that I like to study photographic techniques, especially in photos that I like, and apply those techniques to what I want to express or show. When I look at a piece of visual art, I look at meaning and intent. When I create, I keep the same thing in mind. Frédéric, on the other hand, is more of a gut-feeling type of artist. He does what he feels is right, and doesn’t worry as much about the underlying message.

He asked if I was single, and I told him I was. “Good”, he said, “That’ll help you focus”. It made me think of a quote by Alexander Dumas:

Woman inspires us to great things, and prevents us from achieving them.

I made a remark about how I’d have a forum to develop my ideas now, projects I never pursued because I didn’t have a way to get them to a wider audience. He told me that I shouldn’t worry about an audience, and gave me an example to demonstrate his point: if you create the most beautiful thing you’ve ever done and you keep it in your basement, it isn’t art because no one sees it¹, but to get caught up in that dilemma, and to not create simply because of that, is a tragedy.

So now I can pursue and develop one of my photo project ideas. I have to decide on a theme. I have see how much enlargement I can do to my photos without too much loss of quality. I have to decide on the size of the final prints. I have to decide on the frame size and shape. I have to get the final prints framed.

I’ve always wanted to create accessible art².

Perhaps this will be my chance.

1. An interpretive answer to the Zen kōan of the sound a tree makes falling down in the forest, I’m sure [↑]
2. As opposed to something such as poetry, which is less accessible to the common person. As a medium, film, photography, and music (with lyrics) are more easily digestible. [↑]

Dreamt Sophia and I were in love.

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Snow collected on the grass last night.

This makes me dream of weekend mornings in my living room, tea and a laptop, looking out to a blanket of white. Dolly curled up on the armrest next to me, as she always is. No other contrast feels as cozy.

Ritual dictates that I watch Onegin or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind on the day of the first snowfall, a tribute to winter scenes and warm romance.

This year, I’ll buy myself some skates. I’ll pack a snack and some water. Maybe my camera in case an image catches my fancy.

And this will be my new ritual.

The art of longing’s over, and it’s never coming back.

—Leonard Cohen, Death of a Ladies’ Man

They ask me why I’m crying. I tell them the song is too good, not to cry.

They ask me why there’s a bounce in my step. I tell them I’m in love, and I don’t care.

They ask me if she’s taken. I tell them she is.

They ask me if she knows. I tell them it doesn’t matter as long as I feel this way, and I’m never letting go.

They ask me, “Why her?”.

I tell them she makes me happy without trying.

A few days before the show, I found out that Krista and Shane were playing a small venue in town. Usually I make it a point to see an artist just once in my life, but last time was different; I was expecting Lederhosen Lucil, but was treated to an entirely different and unfamiliar sound. This time, it was my chance to see Krista and Shane perform after becoming familiar with the songs. Turns out the venue was in un petit salon des arts. This place boasted a mixture of different artforms; music, metal sculptures, photographs, paintings, and graphic poems.

I didn’t really feel like going out that night, but I forced myself to go, reminding myself that I could say the same thing any other night and I’d never get anywhere.

When I arrived, the Salon was to capacity. I couldn’t even get in the entrance; there were people physically blocking the door. My chance to get in came after a few had made room by leaving, then I saw a path up the stairs and took it.

Enter six degrees of separation.

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