The World Garden
I feel guilty of mimicry. No matter how any photograph I take of the staggering splendor of nature turns out, even when I occasionally think I captured a moment nearly perfectly—which rarely happens and even when it does, I wonder, did I do the real thing justice?—I realize my boundries, my spiritual and mental limits as a man, as an artist, as a journeyman of photographs, as an eternal soul always developing, unfurling myself, like a single leaf in an eternal rainforest.
I realize I am a minuscule part of this beauty but that I will never fully be capable of comprehending the totality, the magnitude of what nature has been, is and will be; a grand symphony of love and photosynthesis.
There's something about nature that is so regal, so elegantly silent and still, yet so explosive and so contradictorily alive that I always feel even my best work is akin to a little boy tromping around in his father's knee-high cowboy boots, clunking clumsily through flawless and unending design and redesign of lines, color, scent and life. How I do relish wearing these boots and the chance to try.
