To leach color from a photograph feels to me like rape or at least rapine, an act of violence to what my eyes so innocently and generously bestow that I wake up each day wondering at the beauty of my world.
It’s a tough lesson to learn, that I am learning still, that color is never completely gone, or technically, light. It is light that the eyes register and the mind interprets and light can be monolithic or composite.
Color and texture are what drew me to photography but art, including photography, is more than what the eyes see. I am learning that the mind is as much a participant in how we appreciate the world visually; it might even play a larger role than the simple senses.
What I am finding to see in images goes beyond lines, angles and certainly colors. The images that speak the most sweetly (or dramatically or mysteriously) are those that connect me to a stream of consciousness not merely mine.
I need to see with more than eyes. I need to see as an animal sees but an animal aware of its mortality, a speck of life just now shimmering here in time, telling stories that seek to capture eternity, that renders the unspeakable audible, and for this, sometimes, color has to be leached that the bones, if there are bones in the image, can sing.