I suffer for my art, such as it is. The art, I mean. The suffering, like the struggle, is real. This, for example, was a nasty cold-windy day in Winterpeg just two days before it became Winnerpeg, and we’d stopped at the on-airport gas station to wait for a flight to arrive, there being no formal cell-phone waiting lot. That amazed me.
Reflections amaze me, too: I realize I have neither a technical nor an intuitive understanding of what will show up where. That doesn’t stop me from enjoying them, especially a double one like this.