Sometimes it's as if there's a psychologist who awakes in the night with the terrible realization that talk-therapy is... BULLSHIT! It's a crisis of faith, right. Perhaps not all talk therapy is BS, but it's her conclusion that her's is. OK... I'm not comparing any of these reservations to a priest or minister who's abruptly become aware that the meaning of life isn't to be found in a particular holy book.... That's too cataclysmic. Rather there are more times than not that the ending of an image is not as I imagined it... more as if the characters in a novel mutinied and pirated the book away from the author's well laid plans. What's worse... I'm angry at the characters for creating an ending which does not satisfy me.
Okay then... who is the victim and who the perpetrator? Now none of this is to be confused with the image which just goes nowhere. All of us frequently discover that blind alley. It's a normal course of art and one which eventually leads to a large sigh and a saving of the thing to a file which we probably should trash but lack the heart to... I know that you know what I'm saying here. There is, sadly, no artist's version of Viagra which will overcome artistic flaccidity.
No... what this little puzzle I'm working through is about is the image which finishes... oddly. Unexpectedly... Perhaps even powerfully, but not satisfyingly. Still we recognize it as an accomplishment that we're willing to expose.. but not quite claim as a favorite child. What I hate most is when a fissure occurs between my expectation, and its execution. I'm never sure whether the culprit is my lack of craft... or talent.
Which brings me back to the psychologist abruptly sitting up straight in the night and muttering... BULLSHIT! Aaargh!
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