In photographing, I can't help but be curious to take pictures of things unfamiliar to me. Years ago I saw a lecture by a Skidmore grad student on photographer Sophie Calle, well-known for her highly voyeuristic photographs. I really identified with Calle's fascination in shooting people she didn't know, whose permission she didn't have. The creation of something unknown and mysterious.
Hello, blog world. I have been thinking about becoming a part of this contagious phenomenon for a bit of time now.
Perhaps it might bring good literary karma in the future to write my first post about the book I am currently reading. The name of the book is Island, a collection of fictional short stories by Canadian author Alistair MacLeod. The title is a reference to Cape Breton Island, off the eastern shore of Canada and part of the province of Nova Scotia.
Having spent summers in Cape Breton for the better part of my life, many hours have been given to reflection upon the island's unique spirit. The powerful energy there seems to relate in large part to the astoundingly beautiful but often haunting landscape, as well as to the many varied cultures who have left prints there in the dirt. MacLeod's stories have grown forth from this complex environment so fluidly, so believably, that one is forced to contemplate whether he has been able to inhabit the lives of different men, garnering the keen sensitivity to island life which allows him to write with such fierce passion and brutal realism. I am enjoying these stories immensely.
However, these last few days have been wildly chaotic and busy, and I anticipate that the next few will not hold many opportunities for reading. So Alistair's stories are, at present, nestled back in among other titles.